The Fabulous Destiny of Amelia Pond
by Bright Ophelia
Summary: She doesn't know what'll happen or how long she'll stay, but she's young and has so much time. And she knows that this, will change her life. He doesn't quite get why she's staying. At least not yet. Still, he knows one thing: she's game. AU Amy Pond of Leadworth ends up being flatmates with the most extraordinary man she's ever met. They solve crimes, she blogs about it.
1. Prologue:A Late Night Post

**A/N: Nothing is mine. I wish it was though.**

* * *

**URL: gingeramelia**

**I Swear**

Mels, I swear.

I was taking some 'time off'. Really. I swear by all my bottles of nail varnish. You do trust your best f. right? Ok, I didn't know what I was thinking when I said London (seriously, who goes to London for 'some time off'? I admit that was kind of nuts), and packed my bags and left. It was fine enough when I camped over at Rory's place. Then I followed him to his job at St. Bart's. And met his girlfriend (who's lovely girl btw. She cuts up dead bodies. You wouldn't guess that by looking at her though.) Too bad Rory knows me so well (being my best friend for ages pays off I suppose) that he decided to introduce me to someone 'he knew' and thought 'I'd like'

And the next thing you know? Well... the rest is history. Read my posts you twit.

It's great, but WHAT WAS I EVEN THINKING? I mean, what have I gotten myself into?

-Call me CAPS LOCK!Amy again and I'm telling Rory about you, the bunch of bananas and his socks when we were twelve.

-I'm going to bed. Don't text. DO NOT CALL.

1hour ago

_#iamnotCAPSLOCK!Amy#mels#iswear#nailvarnish#youknowhowmanybottlesihave_

_#newflat#newbed#thisisweird#roryandhissocks#bananas_


	2. Chapter 1:Once Upon a Time

**The Fabulous Destiny of Amelia J. Pond:** …aka a re-write of BBC's (super-mega-ultra-life ruining-life saving-life tantalising-mad-nutty-absolutely the singular best thing on television for the last few years of my life) Sherlock with Amy (Not John. Though I love John, I really do. I love John and Martin Freeman. He's like almost the sole reason I started Sherlock when it first aired, the other being Benedict's Sherlock's "Shut up everybody, shut up! Don't move, don't speak, don't breathe, I'm trying to think. Anderson, face the other way, you're putting me off.", but he's already canon. And this is ff-dot-net, so argument invalid.) The title is shamelessly borrowed from 'Amelié' (2001) - It's the original French title. It's open to the possibility of change, but I doubt I will. Besides, it sounds so much better than 'Sherlock: a re-write with Amy', doesn't it? (Doesn't it?)

**A/N:** Okay, the intro above explains everything flying around my head in relatively few, sane lines. To be honest (and to be very irresponsible) I don't know exactly where this is going or how it will go. I can't promise regular updates since I'm not even supposed to be doing this in the first place (Damn school work).

I was originally going to write this next year when I could, and when I would have had a LOT MORE FREE time and liberty to re-watch Sherlock and Doctor Who to get a grasp (and into character) of the plot properly and construct arcs but the urge to write is ghastly. So here I am starting something I have no idea how it'll go. But I promise to finish. I really will. There will be similarities from Sherlock (obvious ones like storylines) but I'll try as much as I can (and I shall) to play a variation on the storylines. Even if it is a re-write you didn't come here to just re-read the plot on text did you? And it's Amy, which is an interesting dynamic (hehe) and will be a very different wall for Sherlock to bounce on (and to bounce on Sherlock) as opposed to John. I'll be nicking lines from both shows because there are some fantastic lines in S&DW then mix them up like a newly invented salad dressing.

I would love ideas or opinions. Just drop them in the reviews.

**Disclaimer:** NOTHING IS MINE (It's all the property of the BBC and the creative minds of Steven Moffat, the man who made a considerable impact to how I perceive everyday things, and Mark Gatiss who I just love, whichever role he does.) EXCEPT FOR PERHAPS, THE PLOT AND ITS FEW CHANGES. AND THE CHEMISTRY I'LL TRY TO MAKE. AND THAT I'VE KIDNAPPED POND FROM HER RESPECTIVE UNIVERSE AND STUCK HER INTO HOLMES' MAD MAD WORLD OF CRIME SOLVING/BUSTING. DOES NOT THE LONG EXPLANATION ABOVE EXPLAIN ANYTHING TO YOU?

* * *

**Chapter 1: Once Upon a Time (...where all stories start)**

**I. In which we are introduced to Amelia Pond of Leadworth, some of her equally wacky friends, and the story begins**

Once upon a time, there was a girl called Amelia Pond. Her full name was Amelia Jessica Pond, but she forgot who Jessica originally was by the time she was eight. Amelia used to live in Scotland with her parents until the age of four when they decided to move. So they packed their bags and clothes and pots and other stuff into boxes, loaded them into a truck and drove down to Leadworth where conveniently enough, Amelia's aunt lived. Amelia's parents dropped the boxes and Amelia into their new house and after a few days, they left Amelia in her Aunt Sharon's care for a couple of days. Then they drove back to their old home in Scotland to sort out some unfinished bills and contracts.

They never came back.

When Amelia had asked her aunt where her parents had gone and why they weren't hurrying up, her aunt had told her in a sad whisper that "they'd gone very far away". Amelia didn't understand what she meant. Then as she grew up, she started to understand; and one day when she was nineteen, she used the exact phrase answer the question from a little boy she knew when his mother died of cancer. He'd asked the same question she'd asked her aunt all those years ago. Amelia's reply was an echo of the answer she'd received, a puzzle she'd pondered on, finally understood throughout the process of growing up and then passed on to another lost child, so that he could figure it out too.

So, that 'couple of days' became years and years and the temporary room Amelia had been given in her aunt's house became her room. The first thing she did was pin a small sign on the door, bearing her ownership. It was hers now, until she grew up. The decorations were pushed for a later date because a few days later, Aunt Sharon became busy preparing her parents funeral. Many condolences were passed on by unknown distant relatives and nameless friends of her parents. Perhaps fortunately for Amelia, she missed the looks of pity, glimpses of sorrow and superfluous sympathy thrown her way. She was soon smothered in the overwhelming fragrances of the armfuls of flowers sent to her aunt's house. She did not hear the wails and sniffs of those faceless people and did not say anything when they asked how she was.

The truth was that she didn't know how to feel or react.

She was too young, as they say. To her, it didn't make any sense. One moment, her parents were there, saying silly things, making jokes and singing along with her, then the next moment they just weren't. She never got a proper answer as to why they weren't coming. The only answer she was given was a confusing "they've gone far away" that starting with her aunt, every other grown-up mimicked and repeated as if they had made a promise to say the same thing whenever Amelia asked. She was confused, upset and slightly angry at these vague answers but not the truth itself.

She never knew of the truth.

As for her feelings to her parents, Amelia was at loss - they promised they'd come back soon but did not.

What did that _mean?_

She pondered on that puzzle at nights after the first few weeks of her parents 'disappearance' but she was as always in the end, stumped. She felt so small and alone as she peered into the dark corners of her big room, thinking. At the start of those weeks, she felt scared and wary of those shadows. But at the end of her meandering she identified herself with those shadows and even found them friendly, and felt as if they were a part of her. She wasn't scared of it as the children of her age were, and it was like that for the rest of her childhood. And on the last day of those endless weeks of wondering and wandering, she wasn't scared or confused anymore. She was left with an odd, empty feeling inside her as she lay on the bed too big for her, wrapped in stiff thin white sheets with the pale moonlight peeping through her windows. It was a feeling that never left her, and the feeling she sank into when asked or reminded of her parents. Something familiar, something that wasn't really a feeling. It was more like an un-feeling, a state of calm and quiet. It gave her comfort because shadows and hollowness didn't ask for explanations nor did they confuse her.

She was too young, but in retrospect it was almost better that way. She didn't know well enough to understand and be heartbroken by such a tragedy and was quick to move on. Besides the formalities and stray nights she had, it was all quickly over and she settled into her aunt's house as if it were her own.

And it was.

She threw all the bouquets of flowers and their flimsy wrappings away after the flowers had faded and withered. She kept the ribbons for future use and collected all the small and big cards of scribbled sympathy and stored them in a box which she pushed into the cupboard in the hall. Aunt Sharon helped decorate and unpack Amelia's box of things and place them carefully in her spacious room and its bare shelves. The empty space like the one that Amelia had sketched inside her mind as a prominent memory. She would fill it up eventually, perhaps, to compensate for the sense of loss that would linger in her subconscious. She decorated it with interesting things she spotted on the pavement, from places she visited, with things she'd made, or things forgotten in second-hand shops and so on. She filled those shelves with bright, colourful things that seemed to radiate sunlight by themselves.

She made it better.

Aunt Sharon always seemed busy and became even busier after Amelia started going to school. Before she started school though, in the long hours she spent alone at home, Amelia would entertain herself by making up games. She'd make up imaginary friends and have tea parties with them and invite her dolls over. She used real cups and mismatched saucers that she smuggled from the draining rack and the cupboards by climbing on the sink (which with her many expeditions of attempting to climb every tree in Leadworth resulted in her becoming an excellent climber).

One day Amelia broke one of the cups. Surprised at the disaster before her, she quietly left the scene, leaving the cup broken cleanly in half with traces of fine white crumbs on the kitchen floor. The edges looked very sharp and Amelia was afraid to get hurt. When Aunt Sharon came home she almost jumped out of her senses. Then she proceeded to clear up the mess Amelia had made. After a lecture on not to touch the cups again unless she was old enough to handle the weight of the china, she sent Amelia off to bed. The next day Aunt Sharon took Amelia to a toy shop and bought her a mini tea set. Amelia used the tea set instead and continued to play tea parties. When she didn't hold her famous tea parties, Amelia painted or scribbled, or made things with clay. She ventured in her back garden, counted birds flying by, played with string, explored rooms and looked for secret alcoves, and generally did everything she could think of to pass the time in the house too big for her.

By the strong age of seven, Amelia was used to being alone. She wasn't afraid of being alone even at night.

She wasn't afraid of anything.

She wasn't afraid of the dark, shadows, clowns, bugs, tricks of the light, strange men, the monster under the bed or anything everyone else her age was afraid of. She was probably the bravest seven-year-old in the country.

The same could not be said for Rory, one of her two (and real) best friends who was a small (smaller than her) shy boy and lived a couple of houses down. He'd been born in Leadworth and his mother and her Aunt Sharon got along quite well. She'd seen him a couple of times before, and had seen him peeping out the window when she first came to Leadworth. But she hadn't ever spoken to him until one day when she was something like six and three quarters, Rory and his mother came over to her house.

That was the first time they were introduced. But Amelia only got to know him properly when they both started school. He was the only person she knew, so naturally _he_ stuck with _he_r. School was where (when they were in Year 2) they met her other friend, Mels (who was Melody but no one ever called her that except for the supply teachers.) who was like Amelia. Energetic, ready for adventure and the frequent troublemaker. The two got along famously, stuck together like glue argued like cats but always got together anyway, the double act. Rory was always hanging with them too. He was quiet, but an excellent listener, which was handy because both Amelia and Mels loved to talk. Besides, three was a party and there was a lot more you could do with three people than you could do with two (skipping, hide and seek, pseudo-sardines, treasure hunting, homework, brain storming).

The three of them swept the tiny town of Leadworth, and left no stone unturned. Rory would always be dragged out early in the morning on weekends, after school, on holidays (summer and winter, no exception) by Amelia and Mels to go on some wild adventure they'd cooked up together.

Amelia would introduce them to the games she'd made up in her pre-school years and Mels would do something that would get them into trouble, which she knew but did anyway because it was hilariously fun. Rory even with his futile protests joined in at times and enjoyed himself very much. By the time they left primary school that was composed of Mels' (often accompanied by Amy and the innocent Rory) many trips to the head teacher's office, Amelia biting people who were mean to her Rory or Mels, lots of poster paints, ruined summer dresses, falling/pushed/pushing into the duck pond with no ducks, acing P.E. class, playing Knicky Knicky Nine Door and scaring the daylights out of Jeff's grandma the three of them knew everything there was to know about, and could be known about Leadworth.

They knew it back-to-front, upside-down and any-side up really, better than the old people that had lived there for most of their lives. Rory, being Rory, wrote these facts they'd discovered down and drew a map of Leadworth (the 'better, 'revised' one, with the help of Amelia) based on the things they'd found out during the six years of exploration. Amelia and Mels would tease him about it, but would later grow to secretly thank him when they dug it out from one of Amelia's box of sketches and reminisced about their so called adventures.

They did spend time indoors as well (usually on rainy days or the rare, occasional really hot summer days when Amelia and Mels felt too lazy and stupid to do any sort of exploring). They usually chatted, watched Disney movies, dressed-up and played imaginary games; pretending to be aliens travelling the stars, or hospitals with Amy being the Doctor, Mels a nurse and Rory the unwilling patient. They had ice-cream and cookies, played every sort of board game in existence, tried unsuccessful baking and did a horrendous amount of drawing that would put an art student to shame. They watched Hitchcock and old runs of Poirot, read about Lupin and his outrageous thefts, Christie's many many novels and tried to guess who the murderer was. Amelia was to her utter delight, the most successful.

Secondary school caught up with them (more like the school work did) but they still had time to hang around. Adventures lessened (they had so many for six years) and puberty arrived, creeping upon them one by one. Rory could be spotted with the occasional pimple, Mels and her hair products and Amy grew like a beanstalk.

As Amelia got bigger and bigger, the quaint little town of Leadworth became dull, dull became really dull and really dull became absolutely-tearfully-on-the-verge-of-death-boring. She once asked her biology teacher if it was possible for someone to die of boredom; her answer was a hearty, kind laugh and a, "No Amelia. It's impossible to die of boredom. Or embarrassment for that matter."

Needless to say, Amelia heartily disagreed and soon went back to her old philosophy of 'if you want something, do it yourself.' She engaged it outrageous dares with Mels (but usually went to pick _her_ up from the Head's office, and later on ended up getting on very good terms with Mrs Brookhurst, who was the school secretary.) at times but looked for things to do.

She started piano lessons after listening to an old Chopin album playing on the speakers of a second-hand record shop. Jeff's gran very kindly offered her lessons.

Amelia did anything and everything to save herself from boredom to prove her biology teacher right. She played games with her classmates, drew even more than before (and even more when her Art teacher told her she had talent and encouraged her), did lots and lots of after school clubs. Rory didn't understand why she was so bored:

"Leadworth's great! It's quiet; the people are lovely, not too big or small, lots of grass-"

"Rory! I'm not a sheep!"

"I never said-"

"Amy! Mels wants me to tell you-" Jeff shouted at the end of the hallway.

"I know Jeff, the head's - C'mon Rory. Let's go pick Miss Mischief up. Honestly Mels - I've got piano lessons. Jeff! Tell your grandma I'm going to be late!"

Other days and on holidays when Mels was away or Rory was visiting a relative, Amelia spent her days hanging on branches (it was easy as walking now, climbing onto places) and staring at clouds, often drawing them in shades of yellow, grey, purple and pink onto her plain white sketch book. She'd get out of Leadworth and visit art galleries, sketching drawings she liked. She'd visit private exhibitions and local galleries which were just as good as famous artists' then gradually move up the ladder, waking up early to visit famous ones. With all the inspiration she got Amelia would again draw endlessly. She spent more money on paints and pencils and paper than make-up or clothes. People would be amazed at her sketches and her school mates would ask to see them. She'd always shrug and pass her notebook over and smile secretly as she heard their delighted gasps and saw their eyes widening at the corner of her very own eyes. They'd ask her and encourage her to be an artist, but Amelia would always smile or shrug again. She wasn't sure what she wanted to do really.

When she was little, Amelia had dreamed of seeing the stars; she once had dream of a man taking her away to see the stars, to see so many wonders of the universe. She'd dreamt so many images that night but like all dreams did, those images of creativity and wonder faded away in the break of morning. Still, the vivid imagery was there in the back of her mind, bursting behind a hidden veil and taking root in the deep bottom of her heart. It was a dream that never really left her even as she grew up. The dream to have adventures and fun with someone who'd enjoy them as much as she did. But space travel was at its very elementary stages and the hopes of being an astronaut had left her long ago. An astronaut…Wendy… Jim Hawkins… a rebellious princess (she wanted to be like Princess Leia or Eilonwy from The Black Cauldron, one of her favourite Disney movies which everyone else seemed to have forgotten about, even Mels and Rory who had watched it with her.)… Indiana Jones himself...Hermione Granger…. and now?

Now was like a blank sheet of paper, like one of her yet to be sketched page of her note books, unsure and uncoloured, without a single pencil mark. Friends and teachers would ask her bug her push her to be so many things but none of them grabbed her interest. She wanted to stay as she was now with her friends, doing what she liked in relative comfort (albeit a slightly boring one) reading and drawing, idle chatter, painting nails or going window shopping. To these vague views Aunt Sharon would reply exasperatedly,

"Amelia, you're seventeen. Not seven. You can't stay young forever. You're not a little girl anymore. Look at Rory."

Yes Rory, who seemingly influenced by the many games they'd played as children chose a career in nursing and started his training. He was quite happy about it and frequently told Amy (Amy by now, not Amelia. "It's kind of childish. Too fairytale. Just Amy." was what she told her friends one day when she was fifteen.) about what it was like.

"It's half and half- Theory and practice. Though the practice is supervised and-"

"Rory, how do I sign up?"

"You want to be a nurse too?" he cried out, a little too loud from the corner they were taking up in the tiny café.

"Sort of. I mean, I can't be a kissogram for the rest of my life, you daft thing! Besides it's just for fun and you know, I'd like to do something worthwhile and help people."

Perhaps it was due to spending time in Rory's company, or maybe the deep urge for something to happen in her absolutely very normal and ordinary life just like everyone else.

"Aunt Sharon-" Amy called absently, not taking her eyes off the clouds in the sky. She was sitting on the kitchen table, peering out of the large window in the kitchen where the best light in the house was.

"Yes Amelia?" Her aunt replied, looking for some plates to serve the pasta they were having for lunch on a Sunday afternoon. Even with her constant bugging, to Aunt Sharon, it was always Amelia. Old habits certainly die hard.

"I'm going to be a nurse. What do you think?"

"A nurse?"

"Yeah, a nurse, a real one like Florence Nightingale. Or your friend Jenny in Ireland."

"Do you want to be a nurse?"

"I'm not sure. But I better try something, shouldn't I? I have to try something to do anything. And if it's not what I want-" she jumped off the table to help with cutlery.

"If it isn't what you want?"

"I'll try something else!" Amy beamed, "I'm not seven- That's not young, that's _tiny_. But I'm still you know… young, and there are loads of possibilities."

Aunt Sharon looked up from the plate she was sprinkling herbs on.

"You sure?"

"Positive."

"Let me guess- Rory's influence?"

"Kind of. And I did some research for myself. But yeah, mainly Rory. He could persuade me to sell pineapples for the rest of my life."

* * *

That, was over four years ago and in her mind, the room for the age of seventeen - which was similar to the rooms for age fourteen, fifteen and sixteen - was a rough blur. Sort of like a snapshot of croquis and watercolours, ending with the same old embarrassing Christmas disco, Christmas presents, crackers, silly hats and bad jokes, Rory singing (which was rather good), cheap Christmas cards, a miserable attempt at a snow fight, breaking ice on the very slightly thawed duck pond still missing ducks, heavy jumpers and mismatched socks, a (traditional) walk around the village with Mels and Rory and lots of mulled wine and drunk happy new year greetings.

She was as she'd chosen, a nurse (in training) and to be frank, it wasn't the most fascinating job - it couldn't be.

It was difficult, not just physically, but emotionally as Amelia would go through so many emotions within mere minutes. It was like a double edged sword and a very sharp one since she'd always considered herself slightly sentimental, though she had come to control her mood swings over growing-up. Constant bickering with Mels (involving boxes of tissues and shouting) and even the often argument with Rory had taught her to smooth down her nerves and control her feelings. Still, the slight sentimental nature lingered, like the echoes of a church bell and its effects were prominent in her chosen profession - she'd have a conversation with someone, and then find out nine hours later that they'd died. She'd make jokes, knowing that the patient didn't have long to live but was making an effort to enjoy the little they had left. She'd see them get better and walk out the hospital, skipping out happily, or get worse to a state where it hurt her to just look at them. She was absolutely seething when dealing with some patients; then be ashamed at herself for being so immature, they were patients and they couldn't help themselves at times.

Overall, she'd developed much improved communication skills and a huge helping of patient. On top of that, a strong stomach and nerves of steel followed, after dealing with full blasts of cuts, wounds, pus, bandages with dry blood. She was handling a rainbow spectrum of medicines and flying around the hospital every other day. She flinched inwardly at times but really, she could take on anything better than most people.

During those nearly five years, a lot of things had happened.

From the felling of her favourite tree to clearing out a room in the house, Mels getting arrested (again) for hijacking a bus, it was a turbulent half-decade.

But the biggest change was that Rory had left for London. The slight irony made her smile, every time she'd thought of him or heard from him. Rory, (who loved Leadworth so much he wanted to settle in it and have kids in the future) had been the first to leave it, whereas she, the secret wannabe-adventurer was still in little old boring Leadworth.

'Boring' was Amy's fond little adjective for Leadworth now, like the word 'quaint' for most people. It was a nickname, but the original meaning of the word was still there, in the slightly frustrated undertones.

Rory had left, and for some weeks Amy had a hard time coping with the fact. At first it was the near-jealousy of watching him take off on the bus, but later it developed into a dull pang; something that even ice-cream and movie nights with Mels couldn't solve. It was mixture of missing, envy, frustration at her state of having to stay while he was off, and… a strange, dominant sense of loss; something she hadn't felt since a very long time. The closest mock-emotion to that dominant feeling was when her biology teacher left for another school. But the true correspondent of that dim ache was in the forever, imaginary bare room of her mind. The one with the shadows and only lit by the fading sunset, the one where she went to when the word parents brushed her auditory senses. The funny thing was that she hadn't any feelings for Rory other than life-long friends nor had she ever thought that Rory's presence - or his non-presence would be so big. It could've been her sentimentality and the time they'd spent together since seven- maybe she was over-reading into her thoughts.

Still, it was the first time she'd said goodbye (she knew it wasn't permanent, but it was a goodbye and a big change nonetheless) to someone properly, and the first time she'd come to face the concept of parting. She'd stood at the bus stop, ages after it had left, even after the exhaust fumes had ascended to pollute the ozone some more and stared into the distance, like a wife sending her husband to sea, or a girl watching her hopes sail away. A quick panorama of the people and things she'd lost; her parents, the stray pebble, a shoe, her homework, a book, a classmate… had swept through her consciousness, standing on that pavement.

Rory was gone and she, Amy Pond, twenty three was left in the Royal Leadworth Hospital.

Today was her day off.

"Amelia!"

No answer.

"Amelia!"

No answer.

"Amelia!"

Amy galloped off her bed, marched up to the door and swung it open:

"Yes Aunt Sharon!" she bellowed down the flights of stairs.

"I'm going to the post office, and then I'm off to buy groceries! Do you want anything?" Aunt Sharon called up.

Amy looked at the two letters on her chest of drawers. One for Rory and one for her biology teacher that had told her it was impossible to die of boredom and embarrassment (they still kept in touch). She could have just emailed them of course, but she liked writing letters; an old habit, not quite outgrown.

"Amelia!"

"Wait!"

She grabbed the letters, her coat and barged down the stairs, two at a time and stopped precisely in front of her aunt.

"Slow down young lady! I thought a stampede of elephants was coming down for a moment."

"Betcha've never seen a ginger elephant-" Amy smiled.

"What are you here for then? Do you want me to post those letters for you?" Aunt Sharon asked.

"No, it's okay," Amy replied and pried the letters out of her aunt's hands. "I'll go and post them (she waved her aunt's letters) and these (she waved her two letters)."

"You sure?"

"Yes! I need a bit of fresh air. You can do the groceries. Can't lie down on my bed all day. Like an elephant." she winked, opening the front door, "Come on Aunt Sharon!"

She grabbed her aunt's hand and pulled her out the door, just like she used to when she was younger and begged her aunt to go to the museum for weeks. When the promised day came, Aunt Sharon was as slow as a tortoise and little Amelia practically had to drag along the extra weight of Aunt Sharon.

They walked together, arm in arm like some heroines off a Jane Austen novel, half singing/humming a too-early Christmas carol, occasionally waving to Jeff's grandma, an acquaintance, Jeff himself, and a few people Amy knew from the hospital. They came to a fork in the road.

"I'll post these letters yeah?" Amy said, walking backwards to the direction of the post office and waving the thickish bundle in her hand.

"Yes! Watch the cars-"

"I'm twenty three, Aunt Sharon! I'm old enough to-"

"Be _careful!_" Aunt Sharon shouted and pointed behind Amy.

"Oops!" Amy narrowly dodged a cyclist and giggled slightly, "Okay! I'll be careful!"

"Don't cross against the light!"

"I'll be fine!"

She turned around and skipped along the road, swinging the letters playfully.

'Nothing ever happens to me', she added under her breath.

* * *

**E/N:** Whew! First chapter done. My knees and back hurt due to staying up all night and writing. When I have my "creative outbursts" as I like to call them (like today), it means I have to output as much as possible during that frenzy because that's when all the good ideas, lines and character-ness explode like a nuclear bomb. Even if it means my bones and muscles must pay the price...

This chapter's just mainly character re-intro and re-fleshing and shaping. Like Mels (who won't be River! I'm afraid) and Aunt Sharon. Amy has a very vague back-story, and we're told very little about it. We see very little of Leadworth as well, so I've just reshaped and made up a completely different back story for her and the Leadworth characters. But it isn't drastically different or flamboyant, so no worries. It's an important chapter though, for character basis and characteristics, which will come to understanding and realisation as the story progresses.

Reviews will make the sacrifice of by knees and back worthwhile, and constructive criticism is greatly appreciated.

P.S. Oh, I've made several homages/parodies to/of my favourite books. Guess which ones?;)

_'Nothing ever happens to me.' Be careful what you wish for, because it may come true. But not in the way you quite wished._


	3. Chapter 2:Something That Frightens

**A/N:** Thank you for your favourites and review! Egh- I've written in the end notes of the last chapter about re-editing + extra-writing some parts. I stayed up all night for that chapter and couldn't be bothered to edit. And too excited that I'd started what I wanted to for ages. But the details are in the last chapter and on with this one!

* * *

**Chapter 2: Something That Frightens**

_Wake up Amy._

She opens her eyes.

She feels awake. More awake than she's ever been, the closest to this amount of alertness being in her childhood and early teenage years.

She's slept well. Very, very well. She's absolutely wide eyed, feeling so very alive and aware of her surroundings. She takes everything in, absorbing every detail and stroke.

_White wall, white ceiling, blue covers, blue blue blue…_

_Red hair in a mess and tumbling on the freshly laundered pillow cover._

_...crumpled sheets… to thrashing in the night (she's active and hyper even when asleep)_

…_her slightly alleviated heartbeat … owe that to the sound that caused her to wake -_ check.

The torrent of information floods inside her head and she absorbs it all, cataloguing it in so that she doesn't panic at waking up in a room that isn't hers. A bare room clean and comfortable. That's good.

It's been nearly two weeks since she's woken up in this room every morning but the slight strangeness still lingers, and she's had to repeat this almost-mantra every morning so she does not panic. She knows there's nothing to panic about but maybe it's the fact she's hardly ever slept anywhere else except in her own room and had always woken up in her own bed.

Save for the few sleep-over parties at Mels'.

The only comfort is her suitcase sitting right under the windowsill. The sleepy morning light drifts in and doesn't hurt her eyes too much. There is a very slight breeze and she realises that she must've left the window open and nodded off.

She breathes out and relaxes.

She's completely awake.

She blinks a couple of times and vaguely wonders what time it is. Her mind might be very clear and racing but her movements are slightly slow. She turns her head to the side, cocking it to her left shoulder and turns her body slightly in a manner reminiscent of five past six. The bright orange clock that's been greeting her for the last twelve days tells her it's a Saturday and two minutes to ten. She breathes in deeply, taking in the smell of her hair, the traces of washing soap on the sheets and pillow and the dull, thick mixture of carbon dioxide and faint oxygen she's been producing all night.

Her fingers unconsciously caress the cool empty space next to her and she hears someone coming out of the bathroom (right next to this room) and some clanging.

She hears the tap in the kitchen roaring and voices -

A man and a woman's.

She smiles and gets out of bed. She does not put her shoes on and walks up to the window. The floorboards feel cool and the soles of her feet tingle slightly. She opens the window and sticks her head out, looking up at the sky and down below. There isn't much to see, but it is a very different view from Leadworth, even if she's beginning to get used to seeing so much of the sky covered and blocked.

Her stomach rumbles and she decides to obey its call.

Leaving the window open to let some fresh (as this city can give) air in, she picks up her green cardigan from where it hangs on the chair by the door. She pulls it on, steps into her shoes and opens the door, letting the cacophony rush in. She heads towards the source of the commotion.

* * *

Molly Hooper is pretty in a quiet way, Amy thinks.

She watches her munching on her toast with her hair in a messy brown wave on her shoulders. She looks much prettier with it down (Rory agrees) but due to the nature of her job (Amy can sympathise) and for practicality, Molly must keep it all up in a tight ponytail. She often wears a variation of it, but it always stays up anyway.

She's currently listening to Rory talking about something (Amy tuned out a long time ago) and occasionally making her own comments. She is attentive and speaks in a sweet, composed voice that suits a primary school teacher. The whole thing about her gives off the air of a primary school teacher, or a kind, idealistic older sister who'd worry about you and ask you if you had a good time at school.

Her clothes, the way she talks, the questions she asks… You'd never guess she cut up dead bodies (of all forms), brandishing a scalpel and reciting nasty causes of death without batting an eyelash by just looking at her. She rarely flinches at pieces of the human body, or anything within her field of profession, just the occasional grimace at things that even she and Rory shiver at.

"But if Doctor Jenson thinks-"

The three of them turn their attention to a text alert. It's Molly's.

"Is it?-" Rory asks but Molly hasn't even touched her phone yet.

"Who else could it be?"

Molly opens the text, and her face lights up happily and she turns a faint shade of pink, "Yes. Got to go. Sorry."

She gets up, grabs her bag and rushes out the door before Amy can offer her another piece of toast.

"Who's that?" Amy asks.

Rory shakes his head and takes a sip of his tea and nods, deciding he likes it, "Someone we both know, and likes to text at ungodly hours. Really, trust me on the ungodly."

"Boyfriend?" she quizzes.

"No." The expression on his face is strange though. Amy can't quite read it.

"So why don't you ask her out?" she says casually, looking for some sugar.

Rory chokes on his tea. She passes him the box of tissues.

"Who?" he manages to say between splutters and gasps.

"You obviously know who, since you've just spat half your tea out." Amy shoots back and thumps him lightly on the back to help his breathing.

"What are you doing today?" Rory asks, mopping the tea and changing the subject

"Don't change the subject. Seriously, just ask her. She seems like a nice girl."

"We're just friends. Co-workers."

"Where've I heard that before? Oh! High school romance novels and movies. Where anyone and everyone who says it end up together and snogging each other's face off."

"You're so keen to match me up aren't you?" he gives a small sniff, blinking his slightly watery eyes. Bless.

"It's worth a try. And you need someone."

"What about you?"

"Still working on it."

The toaster pops up and Amy picks up the knife.

"Pass me the jam. Have you got any scones by any chance? I've been having a craving for scones since three days ago."

* * *

**How's your blog going? How's London? How's Rory WilliamShakespeare?**

**Mels**

* * *

_"How's your blog going?"_

_"Tumblr. It's not a blog. It's a Tumblr-_

_"It's a form of blogging."_

_"Yeah, but it's Tumblr."_

_"Fine. How's your Tumblr going?"_

_She lied, "Yeah, good, very good. Absolutely great."_

_The other party raised a carefully drawn eyebrow. The motion was neat, swift and almost elegant like a bird spreading its wings. Amy knew it was probably due to years of practice with people like her and their obviously-going-to-be-detected-but-let's-say-is-anyway-lies, but she was still impressed._

_"You haven't written a word have, you?"_

_Yup. Nope._

_She could have the decency to pay attention to her nails, fidget and pretend to be abashed or say -_

_"And you just wrote 'still has trust issues'"_

_The response to that retort was immediate, like some weird attempt at table tennis, "And you read my writing upside-down."_

_Yup to that too. Good observation._

_A small sigh of frustration was let out by the other party, and she did not blame them. This was the what - the umpteenth time out of umpteen sessions of reaching a dead end in series of mock-banter questions. She let out a silent sigh as well and pulled back, leaning against her ridiculously fat lumpy armchair. She stared out the window. Typical British, no Leadworth weather. That possibly volume-ised the sigh._

_"You see what I mean, Amy?"_

_NO. But sort of._

_"You've just had a very traumatic experience. It's going to take a while to adjust to normal life, especially when you're living in the right where you've had that experience."_

_She said nothing. Just stared at her nails. They were dark satin blue._

_"And writing a blog about everything that happens to you, everything you feel will honestly help."_

_She didn't know why she said it but it came out like an automated response, maybe because she'd said it for such a long time out of habit- _

_"Nothing ever-"_

_She stopped. She closed her eyes and breathed. She ignored the momentary clutching in her chest and forced herself to relax._

_Breathe._

_She could breathe. She could. She'd had enough (but never enough) practice last night and that very morning._

_The silence hung like the clouds outside and she composed her words._

_Then she opened her eyes._

_The other party waited patiently, with a much softer expression on that formerly unyielding face._

_She looked up at the clock. Her session was almost over._

_It was just going home for her but she had a sudden thought that the other party had another patient, just like her. She'd probably had a patient before her. And before that too. She probably will have patients after this session and more and more after. Patients and patients and patients every single day (Patients like her who needed help. It was strange being the one that needed help, not the one that gave it to others. It was almost like feeling powerless, useless). A pang of sympathy and abashment; the first true, normal emotions she had had in the last twenty four hours, flashed across her mind and her expression slumped. It wasn't the other party's fault that she was feeling rubbish today. Amy wasn't trying, nor did she mean to make life difficult for someone who was in their best attempt trying to help her. She just couldn't make the effort to try to be... patient and less defensive. She took a deep breath._

_"The last time- The last time I said that – I -"_

_"It's okay." her therapist assured her gently and kindly._

_It's okay. Just keep telling yourself that Pond._

_"Amy, you can't really stay here. Remember what I said on our third session?"_

_"About time off?"_

_"Yes. You should consider it more seriously."_

_She elapsed into silence again._

_"This is our first session in some time Amy. You must've come -"_

_"I had a panic attack last night."_

_The words came out smoothly, but monotonously._ _She continued: "I stopped coming because they stopped. I didn't want to come. I didn't want to be reminded. But then they started again. And -"_

_She swallowed. She went on. It was her only truth-filled, co-operative statement that day._

_"I had nowhere else to go."_

* * *

**(a) melsandthedoubledecker**

**(a) amyjpond Found a ginger tabby yesterday. Sharon sends her love x**

* * *

She takes a deep breath and steps in. She can't hang around all day. At this rate she'll still be here by the time it closes. She feels like a diver about to jump off a jagged cliff into the tumultuous churning water below. The Post Office isn't a ferocious stormy sea though. Just a come-and-go place, like the airport, the railway station, the bus stop where parcels and letters stay and leave are stamped and arrive.

Just a building.

She makes another few steps and stands.

Nothing happens.

She just stands there and looks at the surroundings, with people passing by, unaware of her and minding their own business.

Good.

She looks up at the bright artificial light and squints. She looks at the people in line, who are a psychedelic kaleidoscope of images. She blinks a few times. They're holding a letter in their hands or under their chin as they chat on the phone. They have a parcel tucked under an arm. They sign forms, they leave, they buy stamps. She stands there for some time and no one minds her.

Nothing happens.

She takes a step back and turns around until she makes her way out. She brushes past a man in a black coat, almost colliding into him as she walks out.

"Sorry."

With a mumbled apology she crosses the road and makes her way to her next destination, willing it to be somewhere that makes her happy and comfortable. She takes the London A-Z out of her pocket and looks it up.

The National Gallery or The British Museum?

* * *

_…a deafening blast…_

_..eardrums roaring_

_acrid smoke…_

_screams._

_pain._

_scream scream screams screams_

_SHUT UP SHUT UP SHUT UP PLEASE SHUT UP…_

_throbbing pain searing-_

_burning smoke gagging her-_

_lungs burning with something that sticks like asphalt_

_she can't spit it out_

_the harsh pungent air smothers her_

_STOP STOP STOP-_

_pain pain pain pain pain_

_She screams with the rest of them._

_She wakes up in a silent scream._

_The sound that never was made is not wrenched out by her contorted, sated face but instead rings in her head like some sick parody of a sonata swept by a hurricane._

_She chokes-_

_The first sound escapes her throat-_

_A strangled, guttural sound that has a nauseating taste to it._

_She gags and more imitations of the first choke comes out in splutters; a desperate attempt to breathe and choke scream and sob and cry-_

_She makes her first gasp, a reminder of how to breathe and the rest comes flooding and she'd almost be amazed at how many things she can feel- how much it throbs and aches and spins and how much she feels-_

_Alive-_

_She feels the smooth cold floorboards beneath her and vaguely registers she must have slipped off the bed again._

_She knows what she's having - a panic attack._

_She's seen it many times on other people before and experienced it for the first time a few months ago. Her heart hammers and throbs frantically like a wild animal just before its death and it vibrates so hard that it threatens to rip itself out of all the veins and arteries that its attached to and is essentially keeping her alive, crack through the ribcage desperately trying to keep in all in -_

_She wants to do nothing else but just rip it out like it so wishes to but she places a shaking, sweaty hand over it and tries to breathe again-_

_Why is it so difficult?_

_Her breaths are ragged and the edges of the rough frenzy of gasps and intakes echo in her throbbing head that's spinning like a mixing bowl, churning the familiar feeling of nausea -_

_The wobbling hand that supports her trembling frame slips; not surprising with the thick pool of sweat in the small pores of her palm, and she topples down like an old wall -_

_bricks bricks rubble everywhere-_

_The image disappears with a dull thunk of the back of her head and a dull thud that rackets up her spine and quakes all across her sweaty back-_

_She doesn't know what's worse: the blunt ache that throbs and makes her head spin even more or the heavy sickness that's trapped between her spluttering lungs and the back of her throat._

_A tingling sensation sweeps over her and her breaths become bigger -_

_Breathe Pond, breathe -_

_She registers the cool floor boards that are the only source of comfort, but are heating up due to the body heat she's giving off (she can feel the heat waves leaving her) and the sweat that's soaking them like a monsoon (she didn't know someone could sweat so much)_

_Breathe Amelia._

_She makes a frantic grasp at the floor boards, and drags her trembling, sweaty lump of skin and bones to the window sill. She quakes so hard that she's afraid the floor boards might crack and gropes with a shuddering right hand the cold wooden window frame. The left hand slides its way up the cool window pane and leaves damp marks over it but it doesn't matter -_

_It bumps into the cool metal and relishes in the soothing feeling of the handle then with the little strength she has left in her body, Amy wrenches the window open-_

_Her body is dragged along with the gliding motion of the window- it does not creak any more, due to the many times it has been opened during the so many nights of the past months, and she lets it._

_Half her body hangs outside the window with the limp left hand only cupping the now warm, slippery handle. She hangs like wet laundry or raw meat outside at the butchers; cooked by the stifling heat of the summer._

_Except she is the stifling heat, the blazing, burning lump of hot steam, the summer, the sun itself, pure burning hydrogen, the embodiment of fire -_

_Her cheek scalds the upper-arm it is resting on but she does not care._

_The metal of the window frame cuts across her abdomen and breasts, but she cannot care._

_All that matters is the cold breeze swiping through the thick clumps of hair that sticks and hangs limply all across her and enters her lungs and fills them up with such a relieving sensation that is almost worth the pain -_

_Breathe, Amy. Breathe._

_Her body slumps and she descends to a kneeling position._

_Only her cooling head hangs out the window, a pale and ghostly thing with damp dark red drapes._

_From afar she looks like the condemned about to be served by the guillotine._

_The wind whispers a promise from all the places it has travelled from:_

_It's going to be all right._

_She nods in absolute subjugation and total exhaustion. The metal frame cuts into the soft flesh of her neck, but she does not notice._

_She wants to believe it._

* * *

She sits in a long, empty exhibition room with her hands full.

There's no one here, except for her and some sort of guard at the end of the room, close to the empty... well not door but opening that leads to the next exhibition. The London A-Z looking slightly battered due to her thumbing and dropping, bending the spines and swinging it about sits next to her, in an unusual moment of peace. On her lap is a pencil and a second hand hardback copy of "Alice's Adventures in Wonderland and Through the Looking Glass" she bought on a whim on her way here. The first page of the first chapter is open and it's quite funny of how well it speaks for her situation.

_Alice's Adventures in Wonderland_

_…Amy's Adventures in London._

She couldn't exactly call her wanderings 'adventures'; she hadn't met any extraordinary inhabitants or crazy royals, or amazing things that went against common sense. But they were sort of adventures if going around London (with a few banknotes, her mobile phone, sketchbook and pencil and the London A-Z she'd bought on her second day here) and basically resembling a tourist could be called as such. She'd just set out of Rory's flat and made her way aimlessly, going to big monuments and museums then exploring elsewhere. She dozed off on the tube and would've ended up completely lost if she hadn't her mobile phone with her - thank god for technology.

She'd visited Rory at St. Barts' and was introduced to Molly who was clearing up after cultures the first time they'd met. She'd go and visit the pair of them at lunch and chat then wonder around the area within St Bart's and Rory's flat. It was aimless and all very random but that was almost the point. Not too bad for a girl who'd come here on a whim.

_Alice was beginning to get very tired of sitting by her sister on the bank, and of having nothing to do…_

* * *

_"I'm going to London."_

_Mels nearly dropped her strawberry cone, "What?"_

_"I'm going to London."_

_"I heard you the first time." Mels said, licking the dribble of ice-cream between her thumb and forefinger._

_"So?" Amy licked her double chocolate fudge twist._

_"London? That's your place of escape, your temporary sanctuary? London."_

_"Yeah Big Ben, Buckingham Palace, the National Gallery, British Museum, London Eye, Tower of London, House of Parliament, capital city-"_

_"'I know- But London as a place for 'time off'?"_

_"It's my choice."_

_"It's like saying you're going to the football stadium for a nap."_

_"Is not -"_

_"Is too - I mean out of all the places in Britain - What about Scotland? Don't the Highlands tickle your fancy? You've got relatives there, right?" Mels cut in through a mouthful of ice cream and cone._

_"How fast do you eat that thing? It's like you drink your ice-cream not eat it. " Amy asked in actual wonder, having another go at her own ice-cream._ _Lick. Lick._

_"Anyway Scotland's cold. Brrr-"_

_Swallow._

_"Like London isn't" Mels snorted._

_"It's down south-"_

_"The weather's bad."_

_"We're in the U.K. We're brought up to not expect good weather. And go strip when the contrary."_

_Mels barked out a short laugh and twisted the chains on the swing she was occupying to face Amy, "You don't know anyone in London. You've spent nearly all of your life in this little town, in this part of the country- How're you gonna stay there?"_

_Amy frowned, "I thought you were supposed to be my bff-"_

_"ff?"_ _Mels raised an 'Incredulous eyebrow'. Amy's therapist wasn't the only one with a talent for eyebrow puppeteer-ing it seemed._

_"What about it?"_

_"You could take out the last 'f'- What are we, thirteen?"_

_"You act like a thirteen year old."_

_"Oh and you don't?"_

_They both twisted and turned on the swings (which creaked due to their weight), trying to have a swipe at the other person's legs._

_"Get off the swing! You're gonna break it!" Amy shrieked, dodging Mels' attacks._

_"You're taller - Extra weight!"_

_"That's rubbish!"_

_"Is not -"_

_"Is too -"_

_"Look who's being childish now -"_

_"Oh shut up - Anyway, I do have someone I know residing in London, thank you very much!"_

_"Who?" Mels stopped her ferocious attacks._

_"Don't you honestly know?"_

_No answer._

_"Rory, you twat!"_

* * *

Four days later she was in front of Rory' supposed flat with a suitcase, a back pack and a letter with his address on the envelope.

No, she hadn't told him she was coming, because frankly she hadn't believed she was leaving Leadworth and was actually in London until she'd arrived. She was surprised that Aunt Sharon had said yes so quickly - but then again, Aunt Sharon would've said yes if she said she wanted to go to the South Pole. She'd been worried over Amy since the explosion and was glad that Amy was back to her 'usual self.'

If such self existed, Amy wondered.

She was relieved Amy was recovering but still wary. More wary than she'd ever been in Amy's whole life, anyway. Which was quite a novelty.

Amy had told her that there was no need and that she'd be fine, besides what could hap-

Then they'd both been reminded of the few months back.

Who had expected the Post Office, in Leadworth to explode?

It wasn't a serious explosion, just a gas leak. The post office being ancient and all.

No one was thankfully dead, but quite a lot of injuries.

But it wasn't the nasty, deep scar on her left leg that would stay there for the rest of her life even after it had healed or the slight limp she had that was the problem.

It was having the same dreams, the same nightmares over and over again.

Even if she hadn't died, and the whole thing wasn't that big a explosion in comparison to ones that made it to the news, the memory, the terror she had experienced; thinking she was going to die was very real and graphic. Movies made it seem way too casual and being there was nothing like a special effect. Trapped tightly and completely immobilized, pinned with the looming possibility of all the things that could happen – The news reports only reported figures and numbers, objective facts. She was there, every second of the thing and the thought, the feeling still made her insides squirm and her shiver down to the marrow of her bones. She was never, ever going to forget it.

'_Nothing ever happens to me'_

It was true, nothing ever did happen to her. She never won any lucky draws or bingo games or drew something she liked at the raffle.

Then her life had literally, exploded.

Everything changed.

Boom.

She could see the letters stamped in the timeline of Amy Pond, a big capital thing in red.

It was almost stupid, to stay in Leadworth after all that.

But she couldn't move around very well and didn't really try to. She kept to her room, managing everything there and hardly coming out except for her sessions with her therapist that Aunt Sharon had pushed her into. Rory had come up, two days after the incident, which she welcomed but at the same time recognised his coming as a reminder of her continued existence in Leadworth.

It didn't help that people were encouraging her to take some time off as soon as her leg got better. Encouraging her to do the thing that was always swimming in the back of her mind since Rory had left.

Then she had the perfect excuse to leave but didn't feel anything.

She had always thought that leaving Leadworth was something she had to do, and would do one day, eventually. But when the time came she didn't feel so eager or desperate to leave Leadworth anymore.

She thought it was because she was momentarily depressed and that her mind would change when she got better.

It didn't.

Rory left though he came to see her as often as he could for the first month. Aunt Sharon paid more attention to Amy than she did when Amy was seven. Mels frequently came over to cheer her up. It was nice and Amy recovered, found that she had a limp and that she couldn't hold anything too heavy with her left arm because her shoulder hurt.

But there was nothing. That was it.

Still nothing.

The most 'exciting' thing that happened after was her experiencing a panic attack for the first time in her life. It was the worst experience (save for 'the incident') she'd had in her life. She had wanted to just die, if it'd stop being so agonising, so terrorising-'

**Ginger tabby is called Meromy. You can guess why. Now gobbling up all my cream. It's about the size of that rabbit we looked after in school, Pixie. When Pixie was little. I can hold it in my hands.**

**-Mels**

Amy smiles and pockets her phone, remembering she and Mels set Pixie free one rebellious and empathetic day.

"_Well, I'll eat it," said Alice, "and if it makes grow larger, I can reach the key; and if it makes me grow smaller. I can creep under the door: so either way I'll get into the garden and I don't care what happens!"_

She'd had a few attacks after the first one which was terrible - then they stopped.

Which was when she started to skip the therapy.

She thought she was getting better. It wasn't until she'd had another one after a long dry spell of relatively peaceful weeks that she realised she wasn't as she had convinced herself, all right. Funny, that she ignored the advice of a medical professional when she herself was one.

"_I had nowhere else to go."_

She'd come back home from therapy that day and sat on her bed in the silence, for some time to think. She'd sat on her favourite chair and looked out the window like she used to as a little girl then lay sprawled on her bed, looking up at the painted stars on the ceiling.

She went through all her shelves, all her books and letters and pictures and sketchbooks and little models she'd made, anything that would give her any idea as to what to do. Anything to quell that nagging terror she felt so wrenchingly- the terror that wasn't itself which scared and propelled her; it was the terror of not knowing where it came from that caused her to overturn her room. She'd stayed up all night in her room, in her head, in her imaginary sanctuary she hadn't been to in a long time. She faced the truth, the facts, her fears and desires and pondered on what she really wanted, through the long dragging and fruitless months she spent, cooped up in her room.

Then with the break of morning after the storm, she'd decided,

She couldn't stay here, stay in her head forever.

…_and if you ever want to come over and visit, just give me a ring. I'll show you around._

_Love,_

_Rory_

Two nights later, she'd packed her bags, stuffing everything she thought she might need.

* * *

"Miss?"

Amy Pond resurfaces.

She looks up; the guard that was over there - is now next to her gently tapping her on the shoulder.

"Yes?"

"It's closing time, I'm going to have to ask you to leave."

"Oh."

She looks down at her lap.

There are only a few sketches on her sketchbook. No harvest today.

Except for the jobs. And the book.

She pockets the pencil and sketchbook, picks up Alice and the resting London A-Z then stands up, heading for the exit.

Time to go back to Rory's.

* * *

When she comes back (with the spare key under a square of the carpet under the doormat) Rory's watching the news.

"_...the same as the other suicides, and are now being treated as linked."_

"Hi - Where did you go today?" Rory asks, looking up at her.

"Oh, the usual - Another one?" she says, frowning at the news report and sits down next to him. She reaches for the remote and turns the volume up.

"Yeah. Another 'suicide'."

"Who ever heard of serial suicides?"

"Us."

"I mean what are you supposed to do? Not kill yourself?"

"They could be murders" Rory pipes in.

"But the poison's self-ministered." she argues, turning to a more comfortable position.

"But like you said, who ever heard of serial suicides?"

"Us, according to you. And the whole country now."

Rory laughs. "Have you had dinner?"

"No. You?"

"I was waiting for you -" Amy gives him a short one armed hug and beams, touched by his thoughtfulness. She reaches for her mobile phone from her coat.

"You really are the nicest person in the world. What shall we have? Takeaway? Chinese? I'll pay."

"You don't have any money."

"I do! And a job. Two jobs actually -"

"You got a job?" he sits up.

"Yeah -"

"Where?"

"A small coffee shop near St Barts', you know where they sell second hand books and trade books for coffee -"

"I think I know." he nods.

"It's small. The coffee's good. And cheap."

"I'll stop by at break."

"Yeah, whatever. And a restaurant in Northumberland Street. The place you took me out for lunch on I think the second?"

"Yeah, second day. We had it with Molly. Angelo's"

"Yeah. The pay's okay."

"Why two jobs though? Don't the times coincide?"

"No, I've juggled it. To keep myself busy I suppose."

"You planning to stay for long?"

"A bit. I'll support the rent while I stay here." she reveals her final plan, to set herself up in the heart of London, voila.

"No you don't have to." he protests, waving his arms about.

Typical Rory.

"I can't exploit your hospitality forever," Amy winks, "It'll make me feel better. Less guilty. I really like being here. In London. To be honest, I'd like a flat or something to myself but you know the prices better than I do."

"You could get a flat share or something."

Amy cracks up laughing. "Seriously, you've seen my room. Who'd want me for a flatmate?"

She laughs, but Rory smiles with a strange expression. She stops. "What?' But the corners of her mouth are still wobbling.

"No, it's just… You're the second person to say that to me today."

"Oh really?" she smiles in interest. "Who's the first?"

Rory stands up and picks up his phone, "Someone I think you'll be interested to meet. Actually I think you might enjoy it. If you're not scared off first."

"Really?"

"Yeah, interested?"

Curiosity takes over; an aspect of the old pre-incident Amy still left there somewhere, which even life threatening situations couldn't suppress. "Okay."

"Sure?"

"Po-sitive."

"Fine, I'll text you to come over to St. Barts' on… Monday probably."

"Great - Now are we having that Chinese or not?"

* * *

**E/N:** Finally finished this one. I was originally going to do it all slow and steady and in chronological order, but it wore me out. So stopped midway and decided to mix it up with another different story I wrote on my notebook and do it in a series of flashbacks. And I think this represents the slightly confused mind state of mild-PTSD Amy more effectively.

Amy wants a flatmate. I want to be over with deductions. Help.

Reviews and c. criticisms and suggestions I welcome with open arms that threaten to rip due to the horrendous angle I've opened them (widely).

-(a) is the 'at' sign for emails and twitter. ffdotnet does not seem to like them. Just gobbles them up.


	4. Chapter 3:First Impressions

**A/N:** Finally I'm back. Schoolwork was killing me and so many tests... Help. Well, as you can guess, Amy does finally meet Sherlock and is as John was, intrigued.

I'll shut up now.

* * *

**Chapter 3: First Impressions**

**29th JAN 2011 SUN 9:47 am**

The alarm rings like it should except that it really annoys the hell out of her.

So instead she knocks it clean off the bed with an irritated swipe and the bright orange machinery shuts up. She then proceeds to fall straight back into her previous coma-sleep.

She misses the text alert going off by two seconds.

* * *

_She dreams about being chased by a teenager in a striped t-shirt which is kind of crazy because she's taller and she's forgotten why she's running in the first place anyway. She trips and the lumpy, grassy field straightens itself out into a chess board. She runs faster and spares a glance behind her. Suddenly she falls and trips and bangs head first into a fence. She pulls herself up and sees herself- her hands turning into stone and the sky becomes darker like a light bulb that's about to burst. She panics and feels the ground sink beneath her and hears the flap of wings. She tries to turns around but a piercing sound -_

* * *

**29th JAN 2011 SUN 05:00 am**

She's washing her hair when she hears a sizzling noise.

She rinses the last of the conditioner off, wraps her hair up in a towel and makes her way to the kitchen. It's the boiling pasta overflowing. She quickly turns the heat down and breathes a sigh of relief. The last time she cooked pasta she flooded the stove and spent ages wiping all up. She could be so clumsy sometimes. With the stove taken care of, she starts drying her hair with the towel, rubbing the strands vigorously. At her length it is a bother to manage it but it doesn't matter, she likes it long.

She's plugged the hair dryer and is looking for a brush when her phone goes off.

**_5:07 am_**

She knows exactly who it is.

One look confirms her suspicions and she scrolls through the long, grammatically correct (as always) message. The lack of text speak speaks for itself. She punches a response and sighs, and then starts looking for a hair spray, the one she got for her birthday.

Not that he will notice (of course he will) just not in the way she hopes he will.

She finds the spray behind the baby lotion and allows herself a triumphant grin. She's letting her train of thought carry itself to the ticking of the clock and the whirring of the dryer when she wonders about that lipstick she got last Tuesday.

* * *

**29th JAN 2011 SUN 12:24 pm**

She feels stupid.

She's always been a notorious sleeper - she has a record for sleeping for five consecutive days, only waking to have a glass of water and go to the loo. She once slept for thirty seven hours straight after watching Cleopatra with Mels (yes, the one with Liz Taylor).

Sleep's never been a stranger to her. Not that it meant she was lazy of course. She just slept a lot when she could and wanted to. She had to, especially the morning after the night shifts. But the problem with long sleeping hours is that the after-effects are horrendous. Long hours don't necessarily mean that you feel fresh or happy. Quite the opposite.

Like now for instance, though she's only slept for what, ten hours? She feels like a bloated fish, probably looks like a bloated fish and needs to go to the loo. She feels stupid and her head is swimming with images of a disappearing dream and some random fact about sleeping more than eight hours is harmful in the long run and just as bad as sleeping very little.

She squints at the light from the curtains and feels around for her mobile somewhere. She finds it wedged between the foot of the bed and her own foot. She checks the phone, wondering if there are any messages.

Oh shoot -

Her nerves turn themselves on like Christmas lights and she doesn't feel stupid anymore. The alert alarm blares in her head and she thinks she can feel every neuron and every brain cell being electrocuted by the sudden information they've received. Panic takes place in her heart as it starts pumping masses of blood to the rest of her body telling it to get a move on you lazy buggers. She makes a scramble to get out of bed, forgetting that she's tangled up in the sheets.

She slips, she trips, she falls -

_OW - OW - OW - OW - OW - OW - OW - OW - OW -OW - OW -_

* * *

**29th JAN 2011 SUN 07:27 am**

Her heart sings as she turns another corner.

She hasn't even arrived yet but she can't help herself. She berates herself, trying to convince her overly optimistic mind that it's going to be a few hours till he even arrives but it doesn't really work. The unusually warm weather for late January (global warming, she thinks absently) seems even nicer and the pale blue-greyish and normally sorry-excuse-for-a sky looks perfectly lovely.

Today she loves London.

She crosses the street and approaches the not very tall but still looming building of St Bart's, her bag swinging by her side. She mentally notes to check the cupboard for coffee, milk and custard creams. And in the case of any of those low in stock, to nip out to the shops and stock up. Especially the coffee.

* * *

**29th JAN 2011 SUN 12:42 pm**

He slips on his coat as he dials the number.

He knows she's probably smothered in her covers- Amy Pond sleeps like a log, and wouldn't know if someone carried her off in the middle of the night. He checks the time.

"Pick up Amy…"

The dialling tone stops just before it threatens to turn itself off to the "Please leave a message".

"Hello, This is Ward Nine-"

He nearly drops the phone as the familiar Scottish accent bursts urgently through the speakers. He forgot that he left it on speaker phone yesterday while trying to fix his computer. He switches the phone back to its normal call setting.

"Your name isn't Ward Nine."

A laugh can be heard and he joins in slightly, perhaps because he sympathises.

"God, I can't believe it! I haven't even set a toe into hospital for ages now but gah-!"

"I know, comes with the job. I do it all the time." he says.

"Oh help -" she's still giggling.

"So, finally up and awake?

"About twenty minutes ago."

"Right. How's lunch?"

"You buying?"

"Um.."

"Oh come on, I payed for-"

"All right, all right." he checks his wallet, "Meet me in front of the bus stop."

"Fine. As soon as I find my stupid stockings. What's after Lunch?"

"You know. The thing I said yesterday."

"Oh - You said Monday."

"Change of schedule. Do you mind?"

"No! I better hurry up then. Can't wait to see who it is."

"I bet."

"You haven't told me if it's a he or a she."

"You like mysteries."

"This isn't Miss Marple. You know it's almost like you're setting me up on a blind date. At least I'd know I'm meeting a guy when I go on one. Where are those stupid stockings? Ow."

He can hear her pout. And the doorbell.

"Is that yours?" she asks.

"Probably. Mrs Rodren from upstairs"

"About what?"

"Cakes? I don't know, she always bakes something and shares with whole flat."

"Right. Gotcha."

She hangs up on him. Again

"Friend?"

He jumps, despite (clearly) having known about the other figure in the room. It's probably due to how quiet he can be, even when he is like now conducting experiment with what seems like every possible flask you can see in the lab in front of him.

"Yeah. I'm taking her out for lunch."

The other figure doesn't say anything and doesn't look up from the microscope. He's never the one for talking.

Rory scratches his head for something to break the awkward silence about to start - Oh yeah.

"Molly says to tell she found what you were looking for."

"Thank you." he answers briefly.

Rory picks up the paperwork and decides to head out early and not to disturb whatever (probably a case) the self-employed detective is working on.

It's better that way, as he's learned over the short time he's known him. Not that he's afraid, but there's something except the whole other-worldliness of him that makes it seem like a sacrilege to disturb the detective when he's working. Rory can practically see the intense concentration burning off him.

"Don't need the gloves. It's not too cold."

Rory looks at the gloves in his left hand. "Um thanks."

He heads out.

* * *

**29th JAN 2011 SUN 01: 44 pm**

"How fresh?"

He peers in to the body bag.

"Just in. Sixty-seven, natural causes." she edges over to the head of the autopsy table, where he's examining.

"Used to work here. I knew him, he was nice." She smiles fondly at the memory of the former co-worker and watches him. She wonders what he's going to do this time. She doesn't have much to be surprised about, actually.

He zips the body bag again and turns to face her.

"Fine."

For a moment she's slightly worried that that's just it and that he'll go.

"We'll start with the riding crop."

The muscles around his lips head upwards into a sort of smile which usually means he's satisfied and she takes back the thing she said/thought about not being surprised.

* * *

She steps in nervously, after assuring herself it's okay to step in and that he's finished. Fingers crossed.

"So, bad day was it?"

He doesn't look up as he puts the riding crop down and takes out a notebook and starts to write something. His hair is only slightly mussed up by the vigorous beating -

"I need to know what bruises form in the next twenty minutes. A man's alibi depends on it. Text me."

Twenty minutes, she notes in her head. He's still scribbling away. She looks at him worriedly. It's the time, one chance Molly, she tells herself.

_Please let him not be busy -_

"Listen, I was wondering. Maybe later, when you're finished -"

She doesn't get a chance to finish her sentence as his head turns to her suddenly:

"You're wearing lipstick. You weren't wearing lipstick before."

He's frowning slightly and her heart gets caught in her throat. His gaze is focused on her as intently as they were on the notebook moments ago (_Please don't turn red)._ Oh god he noticed (_Of course he did, that was the point)_. She's slightly happy and it boosts her nervous confidence a bit.

"I refreshed it a bit." She responds happily. She's taking too fast now, oh damn babbling -

"Sorry, you were saying?"

He seems content with her answer and the frown of confusion disappears from his face. He goes back to scribbling. He doesn't comment anymore and she somehow feels acutely self-conscious of the lipstick. Was it a mistake?

_Go for the kill - Go for the kill -_

"Listen, I was wondering if you'd like to have coffee -"

She instantly regrets what she's said though it's something that she's practiced over and over again for half an hour; that sentence alone - Not to make it sound:

_…too cheerful (it does),_

_…over-zealous (tons of zeal) -_

She wanted to say it and did but it sounds too wrong. She's half horrified and awed at her own brashness (_maybe it's the lipstick, Connie Prince said it always did the trick_) and filled with sinking dread -

_What if he realises?_

"Black, two sugars, please. I'll be upstairs."

He finishes, snaps the notebook shut and heads out of the room, completely missing the point. He's gone before she has time to process what's just happened.

"OK."

She doesn't know what to feel._ Disappointment or exasperation first?_

* * *

**29th JAN 2011 SUN 02:06 pm**

"There."

Rory points to the door at the end of the corridor.

The curry she's just had churns slightly to the thumping heart and she feels the slightly queasy sensation of the moment before meeting someone for the first time. Someone, even after constant guerrilla questioning during lunch and over the din of the noisy restaurant she still knew nothing about. They make their way to the down the silent corridor that reeks of the familiar disinfectant (does nothing for her queasiness) and Rory knocks on the door, swinging it open. He steps in and holds it open for her. The dull pain in her left knee springs up acutely and she frowns slightly in discomfort as she follows Rory into the lab. Astonishment takes place instead as she takes a good look at the not too bright room:

"Bit different from what we've got back at home!"

She whistles, impressed with the array of lab equipment and materials available.

"You have no idea!" Rory says behind from all the apparatus.

"Rory, can I borrow your phone? There's no signal on mine."

She turns to the sound of the voice and sees a dark-haired man at the end of the lab. His face is very pale, and is a striking contrast to his hair. She assumes this is her new to-be flatmate?

Okay, a guy then.

Rory feels around his pockets then raises his hands in surrender.

"Sorry, it's in my coat. My other one."

Amy smiles and fishes her phone out of her skirt pocket. "Here, use mine."

The man looks up at her, properly for the first time. "Oh, thank you."

He sounds slightly surprised and he stands up and walks towards her. He's tall, taller than her, which is saying something.

Rory introduces them quickly, "This is an old friend of mine. Amelia -"

"Amy!"

"- Amy Pond."

She gives Rory a quick glare and hands the phone over to the man. She manages a small awkward smile that comes along with first acquaintances (she actually has to look up at him, albeit a little bit). He has clear, sharp blue eyes which are a nice shade.

"How's the scar? Are you going to have reconstructive surgery?"

She starts at this and her arms uncross. Had she heard him wrong? "Sorry? What?"

"Are you going to have reconstructive surgery or not? People, especially women tend to be rather conscious about those things."

He looks back at her as he texts away on her phone. She stares at him then at Rory but Rory has a smile of all things on his face. She stares back at the man, who is unfazed by her shock. She tries to form an answer.

"Maybe, I'm not sure. Sorry, how?"

"Ah! Molly, coffee. Thank you."

As if on cue, the door swings open and the smell of coffee whooshes in with a brown ponytail. Molly Hooper jumps at the sight of Amy, nearly spilling the coffee

"Amy!"

"Hello Molly."

Molly wedges behind Amy and the how-the-hell-did-he-know-that man who still hasn't answered her question. He hands Amy back her phone and takes the coffee cup from Molly. Amy notes that Molly's positively tiny between the two of them.

"What happened to the lipstick?" he asks Molly.

Molly pauses slightly as if taken aback, "It wasn't working for me."

"Really? I thought it was a big improvement. Your mouth's too...small now."

Amy feels a sort of blunt shock at his frankness that barges on rude. She's not sure if she's amused or outraged – No matter what kind of guy you were you didn't just say that to a girl -

"Okay -" Molly however, doesn't seem as fazed as Amy and heads out the room with nothing to do. Amy notes the slight smudge of lipstick on the corner of her mouth as she goes.

"How do you feel about the violin?"

"I'm sorry, what?"

The man throws another question at her; he must think her slow or stupid but that's hardly her fault when he's saying random things and creepily accurate guesses.

"I play the violin when I'm thinking and sometimes I don't talk for days on end. Would that bother you? Potential flatmates should know the worst about each other."

_What? _She stares at Rory. After all her questioning she is the only one who didn't know anything about the whole arrangement, "You told him about me? When I got virtually nothing from you when I asked?"

"I told him as much as I told you." Rory's grinning now.

"Then how did he know about flatmates?"

The man answers for him, "Told Rory yesterday morning that I must be a difficult man to find a flatmate for. Now here she is just after lunch with an old friend, also a nurse as well. Wasn't that difficult a leap."

"How did you know I'm a nurse? And my scar?"

"Got my eye on a nice little place in central London." The man puts his coat and scarf on and continues to ignore her question. She's starting to get as irritated as she's bewildered. "Together we'll be able to afford it. Meet there today evening, seven o'clock. Sorry, got to dash. I left my riding crop in the mortuary."

_Riding crop? Evening? Seven?_ He's about to dash out the door. _Oh no you don't -_

"Is that it?" she calls.

"Is that what?" The man turns back with the grace of a dancer.

"I just met you and we're going to go and look at a flat?"

"Problem?"

"Strange man, strange city. Don't know a thing about each other or where we're meeting. I don't even know your name. It's a fair question."

She stands with her arms crossed waiting for a much needed answer. He smiles and steps towards her.

"I know you're a nurse who's recently been in an accident. Explosion at local post office; you're still afraid to step in there. You have an aunt whom you have considerably difficult relationship with, possibly because she neglected you as child. You came here to get away from her and her recently finished relationship."

His voice is low and she has to strain to hear him as he talks with speed and ease. Every word should hurt but she doesn't have time; she's too drawn and horrified at how he knows all this. He takes a peek at her leg and she unconsciously flinches. He doesn't even stop for breath.

"And I know that your therapist thinks your limp's psychosomatic, quite correctly, I'm afraid."

_What?_

"That's enough to be going on with, don't you think?"

He walk away, satisfied with his answer and opens the door, about to leave before she can even open her mouth. Then suddenly he comes back, poking his head around it.

"The name's Sherlock Holmes and the address is 221B Baker Street. Afternoon."

The man - Sherlock Holmes (a peculiar name for a totally bizarre man) dashes out with his long black coat swinging behind him that almost gives Batman a run for his money.

She looks at Rory who shrugs. "Yeah, he's always like that."

A not-awkward but awkward silence hangs in the air and the two of them don't say anything which is the first time it's ever happened - because Amy's never run out of things to say.

Now she has.

The door swings open again and she expects it to be him - Sherlock Holmes again, but instead it's Molly Hooper.

"Sorry, I left -"

She stops dead in her tracks.

"Um… Did you two fight?" Molly asks tentatively, eyeing the two of them.

"No. It's just Amy met Sherlock." Rory supplies.

"Yes I - Oh. Did he um... did he?"

"She means did he scan you." Rory finishes.

"Scan me?" Amy asks, still not believing what happened.

"Yeah. It's what we call it. Sherlock scan." he explains.

"Telling me stuff about me even though I've just met him? Telling me stuff that I don't even know about myself?" Amy says before she can stop herself.

"That's probably the most accurate definition of it. Remember what I said about him scaring you off? Um.. You took it quite well. Compared to…"

Molly nods earnestly next to Rory.

"How does he? - You said always?" The words aren't even coherent but Rory knows her and Sherlock Holmes well enough to understand what she's referring to.

"Always. To everyone. First time I met him I almost dropped the stack of files I was holding."

"I dropped a liver on the paperwork." Molly pipes.

The three of them stand in momentary pause, each to their own thoughts.

"So are you going to go?" Rory asks.

"Go? Where?" Molly spins on the spot at the mention.

Amy asks the same question to herself - strange man who knows so much about her and talks at a hundred mph. The complete shock of being exposed raw and opened at his words -

How did he know? Aunt Sharon, her scars... and what was that about her limp?

Amy looks at the phone, her phone in her hands.

She has questions. Questions that always have to be answered if she can get them. She snaps her phone up and zooms into google.

* * *

She finds Baker Street quite easily with the help of Rory, Molly (who seems to have been there a few times) and her trusty London A-Z. It's conveniently next to a small cafe called Speedy's. She stands in front of a black door, with '221B' nailed boldly in gold and raps the knocker. 221 B - It's kind of catchy. She hears the screeching of tires and instinctively looks back, and sees Sherlock Holmes stepping out of it.

"So you turned up."

"Yeah. Beggars can't be choosers." Amy replies. She steps down the front steps and sticks her hand out as a friendly gesture. Attack first. He's still in that swishy black cat and blue scarf. She's oddly pleased to see him again, "Mr Holmes."

"Sherlock, please." he takes her hand, quickly and firmly.

"So... Central London. Must be pricey." she adds, starting with what would be a conversational topic for two potential flat sharers. And another thing. She's worried. Even if they do split the rent, she wonders if her two jobs can cover it. She does have her savings but she isn't too eager to touch it not when she's been saving for so long.

"Mrs Hudson, the landlady, she's given me a special deal. A favour from a few years back. Her husband got himself sentenced to death in Florida. I was able to help out." Sherlock explains and her curiosity is piqued at the mention of a case. She briefly wonders what kind of landlady Mrs Hudson will be.

"So you stopped her husband being executed?" she asks.

Sherlock Holmes looks at her with mild amusement, "Oh, no, I ensured it."

Before she has time to question him the door swings open. "Sherlock!"

A small lady greets them with a huge smile and hugs Sherlock Holmes. He embraces her too; they seem to know each other quite well.

"Mrs Hudson, Miss Amy Pond."

"Hello. Come in!"

"Thank you." Amy smiles too, Mrs Hudson's smile is infectious.

"Shall we?"

Amy steps into her potential flat with Sherlock, Mrs Hudson on her tail. The door shuts behind them and the extra thud of the knocker is heard. She climbs up the flight of stairs to the source of light from above and smiles at the image in her head, of the three of them ascending to heaven. She notes the wallpaper, like a bamboo forest; very unusual but quite nice. Sherlock Holmes reaches the top first and waits at the door for her.

Not so rude then.

She reaches the top of the steps too and he opens the door, letting the light flood in.

"Wow - Nice."

It's not too big but just enough. Slightly messy and there are books and papers (Sherlock's?) all over. It has a modern but comfy feel to it. It could do with a little more light though, with only streaks of it coming through the roughly drawn curtains.

"Yes. Yes, I think so, my thoughts precisely." Sherlock says absently and takes his coat off, hanging it on one of the chairs.

"So I went straight ahead and moved in - /If we get all this rubbish cleared -"

Oh. Right. The pair of them stare at each other momentarily, taken aback by the other's response. She recovers first, "So this is all- your stuff?"

"Well, obviously I can um... straighten things up a bit." He moves around quite well with all the obstacles and makes an attempt to 'straighten things out'. The slight awkwardness tells her that he's not used to it. He chucks some paper into one of the many open boxes and slaps some other papers onto the mantelpiece then stabs them with a knife. She tries not to giggle at his attempt looks around and spots something.

"Nice skull." Amy states, pointing to the mantelpiece. There are some interesting things there and she takes a closer look, trying not to look too rude.

"Friend of mine. When I say friend..." he smiles slightly.

"What do you think, then, Miss Pond? There's another bedroom upstairs, if you'll need two bedrooms." Mrs Hudson enters. Amy does a mental doubles take. She thought - Oh.

"Um yes, we'll need two. We're not - I just met - " Amy attempts to explain and smooth out the awkwardness. It's first acquaintances after all and she doesn't know for sure if she's going to stay or not. Sherlock however, doesn't seem fazed at all. Neither is Mrs Hudson as she weaves her way through the kitchen which is packed with experiments - It looks like someone gathered up the lab equipment in St Barts' then poured it on to the small kitchen table. Amy looks around and decides to sit down on the armchair with a cushion, her legs tired from all the standing up and meandering she's been doing.

"I looked you up on the internet a few hours ago."

Sherlock turns to face her, voice slightly expectant, "Anything interesting?"

"Your website. The Science of Deduction."

"What did you think?" He smiles proudly like a schoolboy. Then it falters at her smirk.

"Quite... You said you could identify a software designer by his tie and an airline pilot by his left thumb? Why left though?" she recites what she read on his website. Her eyebrows were dangling high on her forehead as she went through it, as if she was going through some conspiracy theory. Half doubtful, baffled, amazed, and just a bit believing? All the things he said, they couldn't be -

"Yes. And I can read your nursing profession and the explosion you survived in your hands and your leg, and your relationship with your aunt on your mobile phone." His face is deadly serious almost defensive.

"How?" The mantra she's been chanting for the whole afternoon, and the question to all her problems. He's stares at her as if she already knows. As if she should know.

What?

"What about these suicides then, Sherlock? Three exactly the same." Mrs Hudson asks behind Amy.

"Four. There's been a fourth. And there's something different this time." he says from the window, staring out of it.

"A fourth?"

The sound of footsteps can be heard and Amy looks up to see someone entering the flat. His face is familiar and Amy recalls it's the inspector from last night's news. Police?

"Where?" Sherlock seems to know why he's here.

"Brixton, Lauriston Gardens." The inspector replies. Something about his posture is urgent, busy.

"What's new about this one? You wouldn't have come to have get me if there wasn't something different."

This one? Come to him?

She watches the two of them like a game of table tennis.

"You know how they never leave notes? This one did.

"Who's on forensics?''

"Anderson."

She can see Sherlock's dismissive disgust, "Anderson won't work with me."

"Well, he won't be your assistant."

Sherlock snorts.

"Will you come?" The officer is almost pleading, and Amy watches for Sherlock's answer.

"Not in a police car, I'll be right behind." Sherlock doesn't look at him, but more to the right of him, in disinterest

"Thank you." The inspector sighs in relief and heads out. The moment the sound of the door shutting can be heard, Sherlock bursts into emotion like a flower blooming filmed by speed-camera.

"Brilliant! Yes!"

Brilliant? He's positively giddy, gleeful -

"Four serial suicides, and now a note. Oh, it's Christmas. Mrs Hudson, I'll be late. Don't bother with food. Actually Amy might need some." He spins around the room like a ballerina, ever so graceful and not knocking a single wobbly box over.

"I'm your landlady, dear, not your housekeeper." Mrs Hudson isn't fazed by pirouetting Sherlock, as if this sort of thing happens every day.

"Amy, cup of tea, whatever - Make yourself at home. Don't wait up!" He slips on his coat and that scarf and flies out of the room.

"Look at him, dashing about... My husband was just the same. I'll make you that cuppa. You take a rest dear." Mrs Hudson watches Sherlock go off fondly and picks up a rather dusty saucer.

"Cup of tea would be lovely. Thank you." Amy replies politely. What the heck is going on? Police? Murders? What?

"Just this once, dear, I'm not your housekeeper." Mrs Hudson says again from the kitchen.

"Couple of biscuits too, if you've got them. I love bourbon creams -"

"Not your housekeeper!"

Amy smiles, she has an odd feeling that Mrs Hudson says that a lot.

"You're a nurse."

She jumps in her chair a bit and looks up to see Sherlock Holmes looming next to her, putting his gloves on. So he's not gone. Yet.

"Yes. I can examine bodies. Ish. I kind of was going to be a doctor. Then I became a nurse. "

"Any good?" Sherlock straightens his coat.

"Not bad." She wonders where this is going. She has a giddy hunch.

"Seen a lot of injuries, then?"

"Well, yes. Trouble too." She wonders how far these questions will go.

"Like a bit of investigation?"

"Love them, mysteries especially."

"Running?"

"Best in my year for all of secondary and sixth form."

"How about all three?"

She grins, "Oh hell yes."

He grins too and she takes it as an invitation to shoot out of the arm chair and practically gallop down the stairs after him two at a time. She hasn't been this excited since - ages. They're like children skipping and absolutely overjoyed to go play outside. She bumps into Mrs Hudson at the foot of the stairs.

"Sorry Mrs Hudson, I'll skip the tea. Got a date."

"Both of you?"

"Impossible suicides? Four of them? No point sitting at home when there's finally something fun going on!" With emphasis on the fun, Sherlock hugs Mrs Hudson and gives her a kiss.

"Look at you, all happy. It's not decent." Mrs Hudson tuts disapprovingly like a mother.

"Who cares about decent? The game, Mrs Hudson, is on!" Sherlock announces grandly and the door bangs open. The pair of them spill out onto the busy street. They haven't even started but something like excitement and anticipation bursts inside her, filling her up inch by inch.

"Taxi!"

Sherlock's voice is clear and loud and for the first time in so many months, Amy Pond feels a rush natural reaction and genuine emotion. Something's happening. Something new, different. She doesn't have a clue what she's getting into but like he said, does it matter? The taxi comes to a screech in front of them and he gets in. The door is wide open, waiting for her, engines throbbing. She adjusts her scarf and without a second thought she piles into the small cab, enjoying the feeling drumming under every vein of her body.

Alive.

* * *

**E/N:** And off they go! I'm so happy I got this done; the deductions- Oh help the deductions. The reason I spent so long updating was partly because I was trying to build a plausible one. I hope it's okay. How Sherlock (and I) did it will crop up in the next chapter. But it's kind of obvious (or is it because I revised it too much?) Ironic that Amy finds life on her way to a murder scene.


	5. Chapter 4:The First Deduction

**A/N:** Hehe I'm back sooner than I expected. I was going to leave it for a bit then I decided that I couldn't leave them off just clambering onto a taxi and started as soon as I finished the last chapter. Then a bit of procrastination and now post.

Thank you for all your alerts and favs! Special thanks to CrystalSearcher who was my one reviewer for the last chapter:). Thank you for your lovely comment! Made me feel like I might burst (dangerous to do in front of laptop) and propelled me to finish the last few paragraphs.

Now let's get back.

* * *

**Chapter 4: The First Deduction**

Brown.

No grey.

No blue…green?

Nope.

All of them?

Amy can't decide what his eye colour is. It's like every shade of artist's pencils that she's got back at Leadworth. She can't quite make it out. It's fascinating, and as an artist (an amateur artist whatever) she can't help keep staring at him even if it might give him the wrong idea. The prospect that the human eye could hold so many colours fills her up with a throbbing thrill that connects her to every cell in her body and exhilarates her. She appreciates elegance and brilliance and beauty when she sees it. He probably knows she's staring but he doesn't comment. She proceeds to flick glimpses at the constant and subtle change in his irises but it's almost impossible with the poor, artificial neon lights. She makes up her mind to just leave it and figure out later. Or just ask the man himself.

The man in question is gazing out the window in what she would usually call an absent minded look, but even with as little an acquaintance as she's had she knows that he's thinking. Of what, she doesn't know but she doesn't dare ask. She feels like she shouldn't. It's oddly fascinating watching the lights from the shops on the street flitter across his pale face like a disco ball. His face looks like a lamp, the only source of light in the dark cab.

She turns to her side of the taxi and gazes out too, looking at the passing blur of coloured electricity. This city seems to be flooded with lights regardless of the time. Something that was a novelty on her first nights which slowly faded into familiarity. She looks back at him, in the other dark corner and wonders about asking him about where exactly they are going. They've been in the cab for something like ages (her phone says otherwise) but neither of them has said anything since they clambered in to the cab.

_Her mobile phone…_

She looks down at the small thing in her hands then back at him. She might as well break the awkward silence.

"So why are we going to - /Okay, You've got questions -"

They both stop and stare at each other. The talking at the same time seems to be a thing now.

"You first. Since you're on the verge of bombarding me." he says.

"Fine. Why are we going? Why do the police come to you?"

"To go look at crime scene -"

"Yes I guessed that much." She turns to face him a bit impatiently. "Look, who are you. What do you do?"

"What do you think?" he retorts with a casual flick of syllables.

"Dunno… Private detective. But -"

"But?"

"The police don't go to private detectives."

"I'm a consulting detective. Only one in the world, I invented the job." he corrects her and she gives him her full attention at his announcement.

"You invented a job?"

"Yes why not? Unfortunately most of the police force is hopelessly out of their depth. When that happens, which is always, they come consult me."

He says this in an all so very obvious and factual tone, and she can sense the blatant disregard he holds for the police in a few sentences.

"So you come in and consult? Give advice, stuff like that?"

"It isn't advice when you solve all, if not most of their cases for them."

"The police don't consult amateurs." she says this before she can stop herself. He looks at her as if taking up a challenge, "When I met you for the first time, I said asked you if you were considering surgery. You looked surprised."

Oh this.

"Yeah, how did you know?"

"I didn't know, I saw."

"Sorry?"

"It's late January but today was usually warm. You were in much less clothing then most people, which means you aren't sensitive to the cold but you're wearing stockings. Thick black stockings, opaque and fit for mid-winter. Why? Because you wanted to cover something up -"

"I could have just worn them." she manages to squeeze in a few words in his logic.

"True, but you kept unconsciously scratching at it. Right calf, it's almost healed but it still itches."

"How did you know I was a nurse?"

"Your conversation as you came in -"

'_Bit different from what we've got back at home!'_

"So you're familiar with the hospital. Most likely you work there. You limp's improving ut still bad but you don't ask for a chair like you've forgotten - which means it's at least partly psychosomatic, or you're in a profession that requires a lot of standing up, moving about."

"Okay…" she nods in agreement, it does seem obvious now.

"You were handing me your phone which obviously tells the time but you were reaching for your chest, again a habit -"

"Because I keep a watch pinned there."

"Precisely."

She sees what he's getting at and it seems perfectly obvious, the way he explains it, again without pause, "You said I had a psychiatrist."

"Psychosomatic limp. Of course you've got a therapist. Which says that the original circumstances of the incident were traumatic. Rory mentioned an explosion coincidently the week I was on a particularly complicated case. Explosion, limp, old friend, you. And your scar tells that it was a recent explosion since you're conscious of it. If it happened some time ago you would have grown accustomed and less bothered about covering it up ."

"Post-office?"

"You ran into me yesterday."

"What?"

"At the post-office as you were running out, you ran into me."

She's completely caught off guard then remembers-

* * *

_She takes a step back and turns around until she makes her way out. She brushes past a man in a black coat, almost colliding into him as she walks out._

_"Sorry."_

* * *

"Woman with your hair colour standing outside the post-office looking as if she's scared to go in. Not very inconspicuous"

"Right." She feels humoured at the funny coincidence; she had been too busy to get out to get a good look at who she'd bumped into. Humoured and... a little bit deflated? She thought -

"Not everything is deduced." he answers her little thought for her with a wry smile.

She cracks a smile back.

"Then there's your aunt"

A little prickle in her heart and the corners of her mouth slip slightly. She mumbles an interest; it's the most picky subject out of the three and the one that she's quite sensitive about. And the most curious to know how he could have known. Not many people did.

He holds out his hand and she gives phone to him. He twists and turns it, pointing to various parts of it as he speaks:

"Your phone. It's expensive, latest model. Your clothes are worn and faded. Not one of those bohemian vintage fashions, it's natural, so second hand. You've sewn your stockings where there's been holes in them. Most people would just buy a new one. They aren't that big a luxury, so you're frugal; you wouldn't waste money on this, so it's a gift. Scratches. Not one, many over time. It's your one luxury item - you wouldn't be so careless, so it's had a previous owner. Next bit's easy. You know it already."

She does. She's known it since this afternoon. "The engraving?"

"Sharon. Clearly a family member who's given you her old phone. Difficult relationship. She's sent you sixteen texts in the last ten days. Numerous calls. You've haven't opened a single one and ignored them all. You're desperate enough to look for cheap accommodation in London rather than go back and live with her. Now, you've been through a traumatic experience but you're refusing support and interaction with a family member, most likely the only close family member you have. Signs that you have problems with her. Not just a petty fight but a long-term difficult one."

Every word is a reminder of what she's left behind temporarily but he's right, so right. How can he just? -

"David, who's David? Three kisses, romantic attachment, expense of phone says husband, not boyfriend. Must have been given to her recently, but she's given it to you. Why? Most likely a troubled marriage then. Seems likely that she left him and she wanted rid of it, rid of the sentiment. So she gave it to you. But why would she give it to someone who lives in the same house when she'd see it every day? So rather than the usual routine, he left her. Sentiment, it's what people do. You've hardly touched your phone, no customisation. Apps for scientific journals, shopping, cooking, fashion magazines. Hardly your area of interest but you haven't even bothered to get rid of them. Probably because you're disgusted by the sentiment or the memories it holds for you, meaning you disapproved of the relationship. There you go, you were right."

"About what?"

"The police don't consult amateurs." He says this with punctual precision and triumph, as if he's proved a point. She feels as if a storm's just passed, and somehow miraculously, she's survived it all. The pregnant pause is blank and she opens her mouth for the first thing that tumbles out of it -

"That...was brilliant."

It was. She's absolutely gobsmacked and awed. Even if he's prodded old scars and wish-she-could-forget memories, the way he did it... Even if she feels exposed, like a patient under the scrutiny of the operating table and the dull lights, it's the most fantastic thing she's ever seen and heard, he makes it have sense -

"Do you think so?" he answers a little cautiously after a momentary pause as if he wasn't respecting her response.

_What?_

"Of course it was." She exclaims, and literally jumps a foot in the air, "It was fantastic, totally mad - how do you just?"

"That's not what people normally say."

"What do people normally say?"

"Piss off!"

They both laugh together and the cab swerves around the corner then comes to a stop. She can see flashing lights at the end of the road.

* * *

"Did I get anything wrong?"

Sherlock asks as they step out of the cab. He's like the smart student, curious about how well he did on his test, even though he's sure that he's got all the questions right. She gives him the answers:

"Aunt Sharon and me... Where do I begin," she lets out a frustrated cry and tugs at her hair a bit, "I try, I really do but... It's just... we never have… Got on. She used to leave me alone at home for ages ever since I was little. I practically raised myself. I hated it. She and David split up two months ago -"

"Spot on, then. I didn't expect to be right about everything."

"But they weren't married. Just together for a long time. Six years. Expense of the phone? Well… David worked at the bank, branch manager. Together they were like a small company. The salary together, I mean."

She looks around; yes it's a typical crime scene. Police, cars, lots of them, bright noisy lights, tape, crackling radios… "What am I supposed to -"

"There's always something-" Sherlock curses, mumbling to himself behind her.

"No-seriously, what am I doing here?" She has no idea. After all she's just followed -

"Hello, freak."

They approach the parameter and come face to face with a woman, who seems not too happy to see Sherlock. The offensive 'freak' tells Amy that they know each other relatively well. Or rather, this woman would like to punch Sherlock's face.

"I'm here to see Detective Inspector Lestrade."

"Why?"

"I was invited."

"Why?"

"I think he wants me to take a look."

"Well, you know what I think, don't you?"

Amy watches them butt into each other's sentences with condescension (mostly on Sherlock's part).

Yes, very well.

"Always Sally." Sherlock gives 'Sally' a smile and breathes in the air. He frowns at her

"You didn't make it home last night."

_What?_

"I don't... Who's this?" he's about to duck under the tape when 'Sally' finally spots Amy.

"Colleague of mine, Miss Pond. She's a nurse. Miss Pond, Sergeant Sally Donovan. Old friend."

Right, Sergeant.

"A colleague? How do you get a colleague? Did he follow you home?" Sergeant Donovan's expression and tone is one of complete shock, not unlike the one she had when she was being amazed by Sherlock, but in less... nicer way.

"Should I just -"

"No." Sherlock cuts her off firmly and she decides to give into the opportunity to whatever he's got planned for the pair of them.

"Freak's here. Bringing him in." Sergeant Donovan confirms their arrival and Sherlock and Amy step across the tape and follow Sergeant Donovan's lead. They reach a front door when Sherlock greets a man in a blue uniform. Forensics?

"Ah, Anderson. Here we are again."

_The one he was talking about at the flat?_

"It's a crime scene. I don't want it contaminated. Are we clear on that?" Anderson, likewise isn't too happy to see Sherlock either. She can guess, but she's curious as to what exactly Sherlock did to get such a reception from the two.

"Quite clear. And is your wife away for long?"

_Wife?_

"Oh, don't pretend you worked that out. Somebody told you that." Anderson clearly wants to be rid of Sherlock.

"Your deodorant told me that."

"My deodorant?"

Anderson verbalises her thought. Rory was right; Sherlock does it to everyone.

'…_if you're not scared off first.'_

"It's for men."

"Well, of course it's for men. I'm wearing it."

"So's Sergeant Donovan."

Oh - Amy can practically hear the air freeze over as Anderson and Sergeant Donovan give each other quick glances.

"Ooh... I think it just vaporised. May I go in?"

Amy bites back a smile. He's enjoying himself. Way too much.

"Whatever you're trying to imply..."

Anderson doesn't stand a chance as Sherlock, with ease finishes the sentence.

"I'm not implying anything. I'm sure Sally came round for a nice little chat, and just happened to stay over -"

Sherlock turns around before he steps into the house and gives Anderson something like an innocent smug look if there ever was one, "And I assume she scrubbed your floors, going by the state of her knees."

He then heads in with Amy close on his tail. She tries not to look back, to save the two of them face. She feels kind of amused, though she knows it's slightly perverse. They did kind of deserve it; seeing as they were both quite rude to him. But Sherlock wasn't any friendlier and they didn't deserve that amount of ridicule in public. Ouch.

"You didn't have to do that you know, you could have just ignored them." she says behind Sherlock. Her voice echoes a bit in the dim hallway.

Sherlock doesn't reply.

They meet the DI who was at Baker Street at the foot of the stairs. He's also wearing a blue uniform. He looks tired and grim under the artificial light set up by the police.

"You'll need to wear one of these." Sherlock points to the table where there are a few stacks of the same blue uniform.

"Who's this?" The DI asks.

"She's with me."

"But who is she?"

"I said she's with me." Sherlock's tone is definitive and final.

"Um Sherlock?"

"Yes?" Sherlock and the DI's heads snap to her.

"They're too short."

It takes a sec for him to register what she means. He should understand, look at his legs.

"The uniform. The legs are too short." She explains to the DI, who looks at her up and down. He has a funny expression on his grim face that makes him look like a carp and it's hard for her to not laugh. She's seen it on so many other people's faces but this one takes the cake.

"Sorry -"

She catches Sherlock's eye. He's almost amused.

"Aren't you going to put one on?" she asks.

He gives her a look which she chooses to interpret as "Because it'll ruin my look and I don't want to take my swishy coat off" and she gives him a grin because she feels like it.

"Guess you'll have to do without then." The DI says.

"So where are we?" Sherlock asks.

"Upstairs."

* * *

The place is old and the stairs creak. The wallpaper is dingy and stripped in places and she can heavily smell fungus. They step into a room that is one of three on the top floor. The body is in the room, lit up again by bright lights. It's a woman, lying on her back with a pink coat and heels. Amy's heart thumps quietly behind Sherlock who she's chosen to stick around as he seems to be the card that's keeping her from getting kicked out from somewhere she does not belong. He circles the body, observing. He seems to be in his element and at ease. Amy is more cautious, and though it isn't the first time she's seen a dead body, she's not too keen when she encounters one.

"I can give you two minutes." The DI says.

"May need longer." Sherlock's voice is miles away, already too busy with the body.

"Her name's Jennifer Wilson according to her credit cards, we're running them now for contact details. Hasn't been here long and some kids found her."

The DI recites details and Amy watches Sherlock, seeing what he'll make of it. He seems to have done this many times. She puts up her hair in a tight bun to keep it out of the way while waiting.

"Shut up."

Her heart jumps slightly at the sudden outburst.

"I didn't say anything." The DI says, taken aback.

"You were thinking. It's annoying."

Tetchy. The DI - Lestrade and her exchange glances, and she gives him a sympathetic look. She guesses that the rudeness coming out from Sherlock means his gears are going. Not that he's any more polite when he's not thinking. She watches him and tries not to block his light. He approaches the body carefully then stoops low to examine it, 'scanning' the rest of her: coat, collar, legs - he even takes something out of a coat. Umbrella? He takes out a magnifying glass and peers at the woman's hands, takes off her ring and puts it back on again. He stands up, seemingly done and satisfied. He takes out his phone.

"Got anything?" Lestrade asks tentatively.

"Not much." Sherlock says, looking up something on his phone.

"She's German. Rache. It's German for revenge. She could be trying to tell us something..."

Amy turns around and sees Anderson leaning at the door, pointing at the letters carved onto the wooden floor next to the hand of the woman.

_ e_

"Yes, thank you for your input." Sherlock shuts the door flat in Anderson's face, not even bothering to take his eyes off the phone. So, taking up her advice.

"So she's German?" Lestrade asks.

"Of course she's not. She's from out of town though. Intended to stay in London for one night before returning home to Cardiff. So far, so obvious." Sherlock shoots away, still clicking through his phone.

Amy can't hold it in any longer. "Sorry obvious?"

"What about the message though?" Lestrade wants to know.

"Miss Pond, what do you think?" Sherlock looks at her and so does Lestrade. It's weird enough Sherlock, let alone anyone calling her 'Miss Pond' but she feels conscious of their attention.

"The message?"

"Of the body. You're a trained nurse."

"We have a whole team right outside. Why her -" Lestrade argues.

"They won't work with me -"

"I'm breaking every rule letting you in here-"

"Yes - because you need me." Sherlock states.

"Yes, I do. God help me." Lestrade's tone is one of acceptance, but he doesn't seem to particularly like the fact, or the truth the two share. By what she knows so far, no one seems to like Sherlock.

"Miss Pond." Sherlock calls again.

"Yeah?" she gives a sideways glance at Lestrade who in turn gives a shrug.

"Oh, do as he says. Help yourself."

He leaves the room, ordering the forensics team outside with an "Anderson, keep everyone out for a couple of minutes -" and shuts the door behind him.

Amy's left alone with Sherlock. And the dead woman on the floor. The silence hits her; along with the fact that she's followed a man she only met this afternoon to a crime scene, surrounded by people she's never met, in a damp house with a corpse. The complete surreal awkwardness hits her, and the fact that the only familiar thing in the room is the strangest person she's ever met isn't very comforting. She feels it clogging up in her chest and tries to shove it off. She looks at Sherlock whom she suspects isn't just rude but completely oblivious to how out of place this is for her and he gestures to the corpse.

"Well?" he looks at her expectantly.

"What am I doing here?" she swears she's asked this question at least five times.

"Helping me make a point."

"What point? I'm supposed to be helping you pay the rent."

"This is more fun."

"Fun? How is this fun? There's a dead woman."

She can't believe him. His total 'cool as a cucumber' casualness at the whole situation even she feels uneasy and blood and corpses aren't something of a novelty for her, considering her job. But Sherlock, is completely unfazed as if he does this sort of thing every day. He did say the police consulted him (always) so technically that actually might be the case.

But still -

"Perfectly sound analysis, but I was hoping you'd go deeper."

Amy's about to retort to that but then she hears footsteps, judging by the shadow it's Lestrade and she places herself gingerly next to the corpse, to help Sherlock 'make a point'. She examines the corpse carefully then looksat Sherlock who's watching her as well.

"Um... asphyxiation, probably. Passed out, choked on her own vomit. Don't think its alcohol Perhaps a seizure. Maybe drugs -" She reports what she can make out but stops as she catches Sherlock's gaze. She's only giving an opinion but instinct tells otherwise.

"You know what it was, you've read the papers." Sherlock's gaze is sharp, boring into her.

"What, she's one of the suicides? Back at the flat you said the fourth?"

It clicks in slowly as she catches up with his mind frame.

"Sherlock two minutes, I said, I need anything you got." Lestrade interrupts them and Sherlock stands up to face him, spilling out his analysis. Amy listens as his voice echoes in the room. He talks of the victim being someone, a professional in the media (going by the frankly alarming shade of pink - she smiles at that, the way he says it). He talks of the woman having travelled from Cardiff today intending to stay in London for overnight, judging from -

"Suitcase?" Amy and Lestrade cry out in unison, interrupting the evenly splayed observations. Sherlock ignores them with a wave of the hand and goes on, pointing out the woman's hand.

"Yes. She's been married at least ten years, unhappily. She's had a string of lovers but none of them knew she was married -"

"Oh, for God's sake, if you're just making this up -" Lestrade cries out in frustration but Amy listens. Sherlock does seem to be reciting random facts from thin air and the whole string of lovers sounds something straight from a soap opera, but funnily enough she believes every single word. Her cynical side tells her it's ridiculous and is crying for blood with Lestrade, but everything else; her gut instinct, heart – tells her else. She believes him.

"Her wedding ring." Sherlock points, his voice rising a little as he supplies evidence for his findings, "Ten years old at least. The rest of her jewellery has been regularly cleaned, but not her wedding ring. The inside is shinier than the outside. The only polishing it gets is when she works it off her finger. It's not for work, look at her nails. She doesn't work with her hands so who does she remove her rings for? Not one lover, she'd never sustain the fiction of being single for that long so more likely a string of them -"

Amy finds herself nodding along and a cry of "Brilliant!" spills out before she stops herself. Sherlock's gaze flickers to her.

"Sorry. Cardiff?" asks Lestrade.

"It's obvious, isn't it?"

"It's not obvious to me. To us." Amy points and Lestrade nods in agreement.

Sherlock has an expression of complete disbelief and pity. "Dear God, what is it like in your funny little brains, it must be so boring."

Amy pretends no to be offended at the creative insult in return for the answers. Sherlock sighs a in his head and he shows them that the woman's coat is damp, so is her coat collar. She was in strong wind; enough for her to leave her umbrella dry and turn her coat up against it and the heavy rain. From her suitcase, Sherlock says, they know that she was intending to stay overnight, and since her coat hasn't dried -

The images of Sherlock examining the woman- coat, pocket, jewellery, umbrella flit through her head as she listens to him.

"So, where has there been heavy rain and strong wind within the radius of that travel time?-" He takes his phone out of his pocket and shows it to them. "Cardiff."

Cardiff nails the end of his speech and even Lestrade is nodding, completely won over.

"You're fantastic." Amy yells, feeling much more at ease and less self conscious. Enough to shout her heart's praise. He really is. Amazing.

"Do you know you do that out loud?" Sherlock asks.

"Sorry, I'll shut up" she puts a hand over her mouth, suppressing a grin, "But you really are."

"No, it's...fine." His expression softens and his tone seems to say that he actually likes her almost-fangirling over his amazing abilities.

"Why do you keep saying suitcase?" Lestrade asks. Actually she wants to know too.

"Yes, where is it? She must have had a phone or an organiser. Find out who Rachel is."

"She was writing Rachel?" Lestrade asks.

"Why would a dying woman leave an angry note in German?" Amy supplies a nudge at Anderson who maybe listening outside.

"Exactly, thank you Amy. The question is why did she wait until she was dying to write it?" Sherlock takes over and gives her a nod.

"How do you know she had a suitcase?" Amy asks. Sherlock is keen to point it out as he strides over to the woman's legs.

"Tiny splash marks on her right heel and calf not present on the left. She was dragging a wheeled suitcase behind her with her right hand, by that splash pattern. Smallish case, going by the spread. Case that size, woman this clothes-conscious could only be an overnight bag. So where is it, what have you done with it?"

"There wasn't a case." Lestrade says.

"Say that again." Sherlock's expression changes as if he's found something new.

_What was so important about the case?_

"There wasn't a case. There was never any suitcase."

Sherlock doesn't listen and runs out the room and shout down the flights of stairs. "Suitcase! Did anyone find a suitcase? Was there a suitcase in this house?"

"Sherlock, there was no case!" Lestrade shouts at him. They run out the room and lean on the barrister, watching Sherlock spin down the steps.

"But they take the poison themselves, swallow the pills. There are clear signs, even you lot couldn't miss them."

"Right, thanks. And? -" Lestrade calls exasperatedly.

"It's murder, all of them. I don't know how. But they're not suicides, they're serial killings."

_She knew it-_

"We've got a serial killer. There's always something to look forward to."

"Why are you saying that?"

"Her case! Come on, where is her case? Did she eat it? Someone else was here, and they took her case. So the killer must have driven here Forgot the case was in the car." Sherlock's fuming now roaring like an engine, explaining and talking to himself as well.

"She could have checked into a hotel, left it there." Amy shouts down.

"No, look at her hair. She colour-coordinates her lipstick and her shoes."

How the heck does he know about fashion?

"She'd never have left any hotel with her hair still looking – Oh -"

His face dawns with realization and he rubs his hands together excitedly, "Oh!"

"Oh? Oh what?" Amy asks.

"Serial killers, always hard. You have to wait for them to make a mistake."

"We can't just wait!"

"Oh, we're done waiting. Look at her, really look! Houston, we have a mistake. Get on to Cardiff. Find out who Jennifer Wilson's family and friends were. Find Rachel!"

Sherlock runs down the stairs in fit of glee and he's gone -

"Of course, yeah but what mistake?" Lestrade calls desperately.

Sherlock reappears and shouts one word: "Pink!"

And then he's gone again before she can say anything.

"Let's get on with it."

The forensics team formerly lined up against the wall pile into the room one by one with Lestrade and she's left alone at the top of the stairs, even more a stranger with Sherlock gone. Amy decides that the only way is down and she makes her way down the flights of stairs, ignoring the dull throb in her left knee. She passes some police on the landing and walks out the door onto the road. She looks round, but Sherlock's nowhere to be seen.

"He's gone."

She spins around to see Sergeant Donovan. "Who, Sherlock Holmes?"

"Yeah, he just took off. He does that."

"Is he coming back?" she asks. It sounds like a childish question but she wants some sort of assurance. She's never liked being left behind and being in a strange city in a completely different part of it doesn't help.

"Didn't look like it."

"Right.''

So, alone then. "Sorry, where am I?"

"Brixton."

"Do you know where I could get a cab? It's just… my knee" She points to her knee and Sergeant Donovan looks around.

"Try the main road." she points and lifts up the tape for Amy to duck through.

"Thanks." Amy's about to go when she's asked a question.

"But you're not his friend. You're not his girlfriend are you?"

"No."

"He doesn't have friends. Let alone a girl. So who are you?"

"I'm -"

Who is she?

"I'm nobody. I just met him. Today. Wait. He said you were an old friend."

Sergeant Donovan's face grows darker and unreadable. Maybe wrong thing to say.

"He's not. Bit of advice though. Stay away from that guy."

"Why?"

"You know why he's here?"

"Because you lot asked him to?"

Sergeant Donovan snorts. "He's not paid or anything. He likes it. He gets off on it. The weirder the crime, the more he gets off. And you know what? One day just showing up won't be enough. One day we'll be standing around a body and Sherlock Holmes will be the one that put it there."

"Why would he do that?" Amy asks in curiosity and confusion. Even with her dislike of him, Sergeant Donovan probably knows Sherlock more than her. She could give her an insight to her new potential flatmate.

"Because he's a psychopath. Psychopaths get bored." Donovan's words are sharp and decisive. She seems to have a set opinion about Sherlock. Amy wonders what made her form that opinion. She's seen how he treats her; she isn't much nicer and the mutual animosity seems to verge on hatred from the Sergeant's side.

"Donovan!"

"Coming!" she gives Amy one last look before heading off to Lestrade.

"Stay away from Sherlock Holmes."

Amy doesn't think she means it unkindly, more of a real concern. But the words float inside her head and Amy re-thinks about the bizarre man she's met today. Donovan called him a psychopath.

He's different... but really, a psychopath?

"_Someone I think you'll be interested to meet. Actually I think you might enjoy it…"_

But Rory introduced him to her -

"_If you're not scared off first."_

Then again she never asked him how well he knew Sherlock Holmes.

She gives a cry of frustration and shivers in the night cold. There's no use thinking about it now. Best get back to Baker and have a think about it. About her potential flatmate. The only way she'd make up her mind was if she made her own decisions about him. She heads down the end of the street to catch a cab, the two contrasting opinions from the two different sources she met today.

* * *

"Taxi!"

She's walking down the road - a few roads by now but no luck in catching a cab. It looked easy when Sherlock did it. She hears a phone go off somewhere.

In a shop. She peers at it from outside. It rings for a few seconds and someone comes to answer it, probably someone who works in that shop. Then it stops -

"Taxi!"

Nope. She sighs and heads down the road a bit. The ringing noise crops up again. "Taxi!"

She wonders if she'll get back by this rate. The ringing sound goes off again and continues and she looks for the source of the sound.

It's coming from... the red telephone box of all places.

The phone box is actually ringing. She looks around but hardly anyone is on the streets and she seems to be the only one aware of it. She lets it ring for a few more seconds then lets curiosity take over and steps inside the box. It's cramped, but what could she expect from a small box? She's trapped in it with the sound and she finally picks the phone.

"Hello?"

There's a small pause and a clipped, well-spoken and smooth voice comes out, "There is a security camera on the building to your left. Do you see it?"

For a moment she freezes and loses her grip - maybe the exciting events of the day finally got to her - "Hello? Who's this? Who's speaking?" she asks the voice.

"Do you see the camera, Miss Pond?"

She feels creeped out that this voice - a man that knows her name.

Maybe it's the numerous spy movies and thrillers she's watched but things like this don't happen in real life do they? Unknown voices at the end of a line, who you know nothing of but them everything about you don't call you up. They don't manipulate public phone booths - but then again she met Sherlock today. Sherlock, who seems to become normal as the day progresses on. Despite the throb of unwariness in her veins, she gingerly turns to her left as spots a camera, that's fixed on the spot as if waiting to be found.

"Yeah, I see it-"

"Watch."

The camera moves - spins and she turns in the tightly enclosed space, watching it capture the various parts of the road.

"There is another camera on the building opposite you. Do you see it?"

She mumbles a response and tells herself not to panic. She sees the mentioned camera and it moves just like the one her left.

"And finally, at the top of the building on your right."

This camera spins as well then stops to face her. She has a hunch which she hopes is wrong that the voice might be watching her through it in some control room. Definitely too many Bond movies.

"How are you doing this? Are you some sort of -"

"Get into the car, Miss Pond." This voice, like a few people she's met today cuts her off. She'd be offended if she wasn't so freaked out. Being shoved into a phone booth and having just watched a parade of security cameras showing off like animals at the circus all under the command of this smooth, suave (Bond villain) voice didn't do much for her paranoia. Especially after she'd emerged from the crime scene of a serial suicide (murder, according to someone). A sudden spasm of fear grips her, and she wonders if this is the serial killer.

"I would make some sort of threat, but I'm sure your situation is quite clear to you."

She watches a black car pull up right in front of her on the road and a man steps out and open the door to the back seat, ready for her.

"My aunt told me not to get into cars with strange men. Or issued by strange men." She says nervously, feeling the old spark in her rise up. She wasn't going to just hand herself over -

Bond villain voice (as she's just dubbed) lets out a short laugh at her comment. She doesn't know how to react and decides to shut up for a bit. Tactical.

"My personal assistant will be escorting you."

"Why should I trust you? There's a serial killer on the loose-"

"I assure you I am no serial killer." The voice now sounds amused. "You are quite right Miss Pond, you shouldn't. But then why did you choose to trust Sherlock Holmes?"

At the mention of Sherlock's name a jolt runs through her and her heart elevates_. _

_So this man knows Sherlock?_

"I didn't-"

But the line goes dead and the car is still waiting.

She ponders on it for a moment and thinks. The safest option would be for her to make a run for the alleys where the car couldn't follow. Even if she didn't know London, and was hopeless without the A-Z she could find a few corners. Or she could just get in it, and see who this voice was and how he knew Sherlock?

A friend? A foe?

"_He doesn't have friends."_

So maybe a foe. But did that make her position safe or endangered? She puts her forehead on the grimy window pane of the booth and peers out. The car is still there, open and the exhaust fumes rattling out the back. She can't see into its dark depths.

_At the… hour, when the eyes and.. _

_Turn upward … when the human engine waits_

_Like a…_

A fragment of a memory flits trough her and she tries to remember where she heard it.

_Curioser and curioser!_

"… _Why did you choose to trust Sherlock Holmes?"_

She makes up her mind.

She checks the phone (the one Sherlock used to tell her whole life-story) in her pocket, just in case and pushes the door and steps out. The fresh (as it gets) air is cool and she walks over to the car and gets inside it. A woman, formally dressed is in it, typing away furiously on her Blackberry. She doesn't look up as Amy sits next to her and the door closes. The man gets inside the car and the car drives off.

She calls it a risk.

* * *

**E/N:** And off Amy goes...

Random notes. I'm worried about chracterisation, always am. Kind of trying to get the dialogue right. I mean the reason I wanted to do this next year was because I haven't watched DW in a long time, and the same with Sherlock. I mean I've heard it (video- mp3) but I want to see it and capture the body language and expressions. Channel the feel. I'm a (slight) perfectionist.

So I imagine and keep replaying Karen/Amy's voice in my head and question myself continuously, is this right? Is this okay? aShe's witty and playful often cheeky and flirty but not always. That's the point of Amy Pond. Her charm is like the sort of spiked feel you get when you have fruit punch or lemonade. That's her sparkle and charm. I wanted it to be Amy, the Amy we know and love but a little more, realistic and universal; what do you do when you meet this amazing bizarre man for the first time? I mean you get captivated but you don't just simply run off; you tend to be a little cautious (esp, with a serial killer as Amy's pointed out). This has Amy in it but is set in Sherlock's world where it's much more realistic and depressing than the world of Doctor Who.

I don't mind this being slow (it is) and I'd like to get the characterisation and the whole building a relationship thing right so it seems real. (Besides the chapters are over 5000 words!) In writing you have to write so much more and describe whereas in video you can just do it with a look or a scene.

Sherlock is also very very hard, a help sort of 's like in a state of balance- not too much, not too little. Argh- It kills me, how to make him sound smart, really smart. He's eloquent but not pedantic and speaks in neat practical sentences. Sort of to- the-point-sentences. And the whole genius thing. Argh. It's a difficult balance between the super-egoist, the brilliant mind, the thespian, machine, rocket-scientist, petulant child, cold logic and to top it all an actual human functioning under it all and pulling himself along. I mean he's more like machine than man (at first) but he's not a complete robot, which is a mistake some people make I think. He's not expressive either, he's just Sherlock. Once you get wired to him you understand when he's being dismissive or himself or showing emotion, it's all very subtle (kudos and many hip hip hoorays to Benedict) and the balance of it all is very tricky. He's still ticking like a clock but there are changes in that massive ocean of thought and feeling in that mind of his. Think about it, he's just met this girl who thinks he is brilliant and is frank about it. That's nice enough to make him open up to her little by little, even if they haven't started yet.

I read interviews from cast and writers to get their insight on the characters and incorporate it into my own. I have a long way to go. Haven't even started Mycroft yet, and I've got serial killer cabbie, Moriarty, bombings, Irene (oh help, though I've planned this out in more detail than any other), Baskerville, FALL... I started this to spend my time until Sherlock S2 aired.. Plenty of stuff to do and keep my mind off the wait. Seriously, Amy's feelings of waiting for someone are mine descended.

What to expect: Long E/Ns (like this on)at times where I express my thoughts or feelings. Hehe.

P.S. Nothing is mine. And nothing ever will be. Applies to all chapters onwards.

R&R! Motivates, pleases, reflects and helps me to write better!

HUNGRY. LITERALLY AND METAPHORICALLY.

P.P.S This is the longest chapter I've written. Ehehehehe


	6. Chapter 5:Conversations In Ambiguity

**A/N: **Hooray for this chapter with more interaction, as the title suggests.

Actually took more liberties with the conversations since they are personal things and they differ from people to people. I didn't really have much to change in the previous chapter since it was Sherlock doing deductions in the crime scene. This chapter however has Amy meeting Mycroft and conversing more with Sherlock, so more chance of changing what they're saying. On the whole, the content of the conversations are the same with the show, but the reactions are different. As I've said, Amy is a very different wall to bounce on. I know all the original dialogue in ASiP since I've watched and heard the episode sooooooo many times, but I've shortened and changed the original lines a bit so it's easier to read. I've edited out a few scenes for the sake of it. You all probably know which ones. Just thought it would be better, faster, etc. Anyways, on with the chapter-

(Thanks AllyStar99 for that, I was worried about the lines being too similar too:)

Nothing is mine.

* * *

**Chapter 5: Conversations in Ambiguity**

City lights at night are dull and boring. Artificial. Dreary. Too bright.

It's an all too striking contrast with the dark pitch blackness of the car with the faces of its passengers looking like pale white Jack-O-lanterns. Amy wonders if death by lights is possible, as she looks out the window and is hit with another cluster of lights (colours mixed together become darker whereas it is the complete opposite for light). Something like a scenario from sci-fi flick, no doubt. The ride is long and boring and the smell of the car - like that of every car; newly made, fake, formal churns up a visceral reaction from her. She realises that she hasn't eaten for a few hours but the nervousness and squeamish feeling clenched in her lungs is enough to make the ache of an empty stomach shut up.

_Please don't throw up, please. Come on me. Come on…_

Amy puts her head to the window to see if it makes her feel any better.

It doesn't.

She feels her heart hum with smooth engine of the car (the man is a very good driver; the steering wheel seems like an extension of his body - maybe that's why he was hired). Not that she's afraid or anything but the mixture of being in a relatively foreign city with only a mobile, couple of stamps, a crinkled receipt and sixteen pence along with being escorted to a man who could control public phones and CCTV cameras doesn't do much for her mental health. Her reaction to events like this isn't something she could control. She shifts her gaze the woman next to her, who apparently goes by the name of Anthea, is still on her Blackberry, typing away. What, she cannot say. She tried talking to her with not much success, but the long long drive is about to push her to the edge of opening her mouth again. Amy Pond could never shut up for long. Just as she's about to ask "Are we there yet?" the car comes to a stop and she steps out and looks around. It looks like some sort of warehouse/factory.

Typical, she thinks of a guy who whisks her off in a black car.

* * *

Amy walks slowly, through the flood of lights as a perverse way of getting her own back to the man who dragged her into this.

She isn't anxious now; more like a fine dance between curious and annoyed. The air is cold and she wraps her jacket around her body tightly. She wishes she could have worn something warmer, like Sherlock's coat. She hadn't thought of much when she packed her bags two weeks ago. Her knee throbs a bit (the cold?) and she limps, wandering through shelves and boxes and crates. She's about to give up when she can see a figure lit up by the lights. She walks closer and sees that he's leaning on an umbrella and she has a sudden image of him bursting into the infamous scene from Singing In the Rain.

Or Mary Poppins. All he needs is a hat and a carpet bag. She tries not to laugh.

"Have a seat, Miss Pond."

Another person calling her Miss Pond. She'll have set the record for all time formalities directed towards her at the end of this night. The voice is the one from the phone and this man, who is dressed like a Bond Villain points the umbrella to a chair a few feet from her.

He looks... smooth. Dressed to the nines in a tie that looks like it was made knotted and a set sort of face that's a tiny bit grim. He hides it with a pleasant smile. She ignores this and waves her phone in the air.

"You know, I've got a phone. I mean, very clever and all but you know. You could've just given me a ring with this - I'm sure you know how to use it."

The man smiles and answers her smoothly, "When one is avoiding the attention of Sherlock Holmes, one learns to be discreet, hence this place."

He points to their surroundings with the umbrella again. "Your knee must be hurting you. Sit down."

Amy doesn't like the order in the voice, disguised by concern and she holds herself higher. She's as tall as he is. What was it today with tall, strange men?

"I don't want to sit down. I don't like people looming over me when I'm usually the one doing it."

"You don't seem unnerved by your… current situation."

"You don't seem very frightening. Just a tad creepy." she retorts.

He chuckles in an amused way. "And yet you mistook me for a serial killer."

"You're not are you?" Amy asks quickly. The shadow of doubt is only intensified by the odd choice of place for an evening rendez-vous.

"You must have reached a conclusion of you own, seeing as you willingly stepped into the car."

"I didn't have much choice. And I wanted to know what sort of man who conducts security cameras and makes calls on public phones was like"

"Curiosity? Curiosity and bravery, a rather interesting and perhaps dangerous combination don't you think? Though bravery is by far the kindest word for stupidity."

"You mustn't be very brave then." she retorts again, pretending not to be offended by his words or the underlying condescension. The smile fades slightly, but the air of charm and affected ease is still there and he gets to the point.

"What is your connection to Sherlock Holmes?"

"I don't... I don't even know him; I met him this afternoon - Why is everyone asking me this?"

This man, along with a very good number of people have been asking her the very question. Some have said it like Sergeant Donovan and Lestrade, others haven't but she'd seen the glances from the police and the looks from the forensics team as they quickly piled into the room. A look of 'What's she doing here?' which she initially took for the aberration of seeing a civilian on a crime scene, but that might not have been it.

"Have they? Since this afternoon you've moved in with him and now you're solving crimes together. Rather quick, wouldn't you say? Might we expect a happy announcement by the end of the week?"

"I'm not - Who are you?" She ignores his jab at 'the happy announcement'.

"An interested party."

"Interested in Sherlock? What way? Why? You can't be friends." she half-echoes Donovan's words.

"You've met him. How many friends do you imagine he has?"

Amy doesn't say anything though she has a very good idea of the answer to that.

"I'm the closest thing to a friend that Sherlock Holmes is capable of having."

"What's that?"

"An enemy, shall we say?"

"An enemy?" she almost bursts out laughing and doesn't bother to hide her frown.

The man doesn't bat an eyelash at her reaction and continues, "In his mind, certainly. If you were to ask him, he'd probably say his arch-enemy."

"People don't have arch-enemies. Not really."

The man looks at her with an enigmatic smile. "Does Sherlock Holmes look like 'people' to you? As you might have witnessed already, he does love to be dramatic."

Amy saves herself from a very rude and loud snort which ends her up with a twisted lopsided grin of a grimace. Hypocrite.

"Well, thank god you aren't -"

A text alert rings, and it's her phone. They both stare at it, and to Amy it's like the bells of heaven. Even if it might be spam.

"I hope I'm not distracting you." The man asks.

She checks the text:

**Baker street. Come at once if convenient SH**

How did he get a hold of? -

Rory? Molly?

"Nope. Not at all." she says distractedly, wondering how to reply.

The man continues his questioning. "Do you plan to continue your acquaintance with Sherlock Holmes?"

"It's not really any of your business." she's taken back by her own frankness, especially to a complete stranger, but oh what the heck - she always said what she wanted to back at Leadworth.

The man isn't offended. "It could be."

"I don't see how."

He takes something out of his breast pocket - a notebook and reads from it, "If you do move into... two hundred and twenty one B Baker Street, I'd be happy to pay you a meaningful sum of money on a regular basis to ease your way."

"Why?" Amy raises an eyebrow at the offer. It makes her even more curious to know what exactly this man is, someone with enough money to pass around no doubt.

"Because you're a currently unemployed young woman."

She doesn't ask how he knows. "Got a job at a cafe and a restaurant."

"A strain on the books, wouldn't you agree?"

"What do you want?" she taps her foot impatiently, unpleasant feeling starting to creep up on her. It's a complete invasion and exploitation of her privacy that he's reading out like a school register, and frankly it's getting disgusting. All for what?

"Information. Nothing indiscreet. Nothing you'd feel...uncomfortable with. Just tell me what he's up to."

For some reason she doesn't like the sound of it. It's not logic, but more like pure emotional gut instinct. A voice in her head that says, "Don't do it."

"You want me to spy on him? Why?" she asks.

Who was this man? Some sort of stalker?

"I worry about him. Constantly."

"That's very sweet of you." Amy replies is a mock-saccharine voice, a parody of his and she wonders what sort of worry he has for Sherlock.

"But I would prefer for various reasons that my concern go unmentioned, we have what you might call a... difficult relationship.

"Right... With you two being arch enemies and all… -"

He gives another odd smile at her words.

She recaps the situation in her head: a man who doesn't even tell her who he is but wants her to 'spy' on Sherlock Holmes, and offers her money for it. But doesn't want Sherlock to know that she's spying for him and that he's behind it -

Her text alert goes off again and she knows who it is this time.

**If inconvenient, come anyway SH**

She finds this strangely funny. _Then why even bother?_

She looks ups at the man, announcing her decision, "No thanks."

"But I haven't mentioned a figure."

"It's fine. Don't bother. Or use a bug or a security camera or something. You can control public stuff. Would bugging Sherlock be that difficult?"

"You'd be surprised."

"Yeah I would."

"You're very loyal, very quickly."

"No, I'm not." she retorts twice as fast. "I'm just not interested. Now if you'll excuse me -" she returns the favour of being rude in his face and turns to go.

But the man waves the notebook in front of her.

"_Trust issues_ it says here."

The words are familiar and she snaps back, enough to whip her cheek with a lock of her own hair. She doesn't mind that it stings a bit, "What's that?"

"Could it be that you've decided to trust Sherlock Holmes of all people?"

"Why not?" she shoots back defensively and cringes at her open-book frankness. She corrects herself, knowing it's a bit late for that.

"I mean, Who says I trust him?" Amy likes this conversation less and less as it goes on. No answers, just a load of questions, which is harmful enough for a girl with as much curiosity as her. Her knee hurts too and she's cold. Not to mention the ambiguous looks from the man, like the one he's giving her now.

"Where is this going?" she asks again.

He looks at her smiles gone, "You tell me."

She gives him a definitive glare and turns to really leave.

"I imagine people have already warned you to stay away from him, but I can see from your left hand that's not going to happen."

That stops her. This man has a talent for one liners.

"My what?"

"Show me." He asks for her hand with a silent motion of holding his up. She looks at her left hand at her side and eyes the man who's holding his hand out. She stretches her arm out gingerly in a reciprocated gesture of thinly given trust.

"What's wrong with my hand?"

"Nothing. You have an intermittent tremor, although it's perfectly still now. According to your therapist however, she thinks it's post traumatic stress disorder. She thinks you're still affected by the events of that explosion you had the misfortune to experience."

She freezes at his words but no sound comes out. She just stands there, listening to him speak.

"Fire her. She's got it the wrong way round. You're under stress right now and your hand is perfectly still. I assume by the expression on your face it's the first time in many months, this has happened?"

She nods, very quietly. Her hand is deadly steady compared to the rest of her that's shaking slightly because of… what? The cold? Or rage at this man knowing everything about her, at feeling exposed?

"I… -"

"Was told to take a leave of absence because your hand prevented you from your profession and many everyday tasks, such as piano playing."

She snatches her hand away from him and steps back, shaken and slightly scared. No one likes their life being prodded and peeled with or without permission and today's just been full of it. She's had enough, and the barely concealed mix of horror, awe, terror and thinly contained rage is simmering as she manages to keep her trembling voice that's in sync with the rest of her body, as still as she can.

"Who are you? How do you know all this?"

"Remarkable." He ignores her outraged question and states another totally irrelevant word again.

"What?"

"Most people in this city blunder around day and night and all they see are streets and shops and cars."

_The image of the flooding of light and various signs flick through her memories._

"When you walk with Sherlock Holmes, you see the battlefield. The very grounds of life self. You've seen it already, haven't you?"

A lump catches in her throat and she doesn't know why. She wants to force it back down but it just stays there, straining painfully and suffocating her.

"Tell me; if a young lady from a remote English village, chooses to come to London in a time of her life when she is specifically told to rest, especially after such a catastrophe, what should we make of that?"

Amy listens with her breath held, maybe, a crazy maybe but still a maybe, this man might have an answer to the unknown question she's been looking for and asking herself for months. She tries to swallow again and half-succeeds.

"You're here because you wanted to know." he continues

"Know what?" she asks out of her uncontrollable curiosity. Her voice comes out strained, half-controlled.

"What the world was like outside. You've been waiting to escape and then came the catalyst. You aren't haunted by that explosion Miss Pond, you needed it."

Her phone goes off again for the third time but it seems louder than the previous two. The man seems to have finished with her and walks away casually, swinging his umbrella.

"Time to choose a side, Miss Pond." his voice echoes in volumes through the cold night. She hesitates, waiting for every note of his voice to disappear into the night, and then opens the text.

**Could be dangerous. SH**

* * *

The black car drops her in front of 221B with precision then drives off into the night.

Amy stands there, looking up at the flat. The lights are on, and she guesses it's Sherlock. She takes a breath and step in, wondering what in the world she was needed for. The front door is open and she slips past quietly, closing behind her.

She goes up the stairs one by one, not really focusing; her mind is too wrapped up with the conversation she had with the strange man. She didn't even get his name.

She sees the light through the partially closed door at the top of the stairs and enters the flat she is supposed to be sharing (still hasn't made her mind up yet). She sees Sherlock on the couch, lying down with his legs propped on the armrest. He's looking up at the ceiling, with one sleeve rolled up. He doesn't move and she moves closer to his side of the room. On closer inspection she sees that there are three patches on the bare arm. She prods him with a finger and his pupils shift to her. "What are you doing?"

"Nicotine patch. Helps me think."

"Three?" Amy points at the patches, one two three.

"It's a three-patch problem. Not to mention that it's impossible to sustain a smoking habit in London these days."

She raises an eyebrow at him, "Still, at least the rest of us can breathe."

She walks to the window where the curtains are partially drawn. She wonders if there are any security cameras out there, and if that man is watching her.

"Urgh" Sherlock groans in disgust, brings his hands together as if to pray and props them under his chin. "Breathing! Breathing's boring. Brainwork is what counts."

She doesn't bother to point out to ask how is smoking good for breathing but retires to sitting on the table next to the couch. "What did you need me for?"

Sherlock opens his eyes and looks at her as if he's just remembered. "Oh yes, can I borrow your phone?"

"My phone? What about yours?"

"My number's on the website, and there's, always a chance of being recognised"

"What about Mrs Hudson?"

"Yeah, she's downstairs. I tried shouting but she didn't hear."

She can't believe the sheer - she remembers noting that he wasn't active back at Barts'. This isn't just inactive, this is pure –

"I was on the other side of London, couldn't you have just?-"

"There was no hurry." he brushes off her incredulity with his trademark bored tone.

URGH.

Amy surrenders and stretches her arm out to hand him her phone. He extends his palm and opens it. He doesn't move anymore and there is an odd gap between her hand and his. She sighs and slaps the phone into his palm with as much strength she can muster into the little device and he flinches slightly at the impact.

"I hope that hurt." she mumbles. Sherlock doesn't say anything and takes the phone in his hands, playing with it.

"So you still working on the case?"

"Case. Her case."

"What the case or... the case?"

"Both, but her case at the moment."

"Case?"

"Yes, suitcase, obviously."

His favourite phrase seems to be 'obviously'. She continues to bug him, to get her answers. It's not every day you run into a murder case.

"What about the case?" Amy asks again.

"The murderer took her suitcase, first big mistake."

"Why?"

"It's no use, there's no other way. We'll have to risk it." Sherlock snaps his head to her and points a long arm at the table.

"Risk what?"

"On my desk there's a number. I want you to send a text."

She jumps to her feet and he hands her back her phone.

"Wait. You wanted me here...So I could send a text?"

She can't believe him.

"Text, yes. The number on my desk." Sherlock answers impatiently.

"Right."

She snatches the phone and walks to the window and looks out again, her paranoia kicking in. She closes the curtains, just in case.

"What's wrong?" Sherlock asks.

"Nothing. Had a chat with a friend of yours." Amy replies, fiddling with the curtain.

"A friend?"

His tone holds surprise and she can hear his eyebrows go up. She frowns and stares at him. She wonders what kind of man gets surprised at the mention of his 'friends'. His tone suggests that he takes it as 'obvious' as to not having friends. She tries substituting a word.

"Well, an enemy, according to him."

"Oh. Which one?" He seems nonplussed and almost sounds relieved, and she thinks it weirder. How many enemies does he have?

"Apparently he's your arch-enemy. Do people actually have arch-enemies, in real life? You know not like in movies or -"

"Did he offer you money to spy on me?" Sherlock asks and she's surprised at how he knows. Maybe they have the same man in mind?

"Yup."

"Did you take it?"

"No..."

"Pity, we could have split the fee. Or possibly have it for the flat share. Think it through next time."

"Right I will." Amy says.

He really is peculiar, even if this is only the umpteenth fact that tells her so, "Who is he?"

"The most dangerous man you've ever met and will ever meet. Also not my problem right now. On my desk, the number -"

"I'm getting there -"

She walks over to the desk and picks up a piece of paper under a Rubik's cube.

"Jennifer Wilson." she reads out loud, "Hey, that's - Wasn't that the dead woman?"

"Yes. That's not important. Just enter the number."

She leaves the questions for now and opens the messages and taps in the number.

"Are you doing it?" Sherlock asks.

'Yeah.."

"Have you done it?"

"Wait…. Done."

"These words exactly." Sherlock calls out clearly and concisely, "What happened at Lauriston Gardens? I must have blacked out. 22 Northumberland Street, please come."

"What... wait, you blacked out?" Amy asks, furiously typing away.

"What, no... No!" He shouts and jumps out of the couch, striding over to her. He peeks over her shoulder and she jumps a little at his voice right next to her ear, "Type and send it. Quickly."

"…blacked out…"

"Have you sent it?" He walks over to a chair and gets something.

"What's the address?" Amy asks again.

"22 Northumberland Street. Hurry up!"

'"Okay, okay. It's easier for you when you're not the one doing it." she grumbles and punches in the last few words. She turns to face Sherlock who's placed himself on a chair and is now looking at… a pink suitcase, with its contents wide open -

"That's...That's the pink- Jennifer Wilson's case isn't it?" she manages to ask without resorting into another babble.

"Yes, obviously." He doesn't look up. Again with the obviously. She puts the slip of paper down n the desk and sits opposite him, and stares at the case.

"So... um you found it.../ Oh, perhaps I should mention I didn't kill her."

Third time today, and she's used to it and speaks first. "I never said you did."

"Why not? Given that text I just had you send and the fact I have her case –"

"But you went to look for it, so it can't be you"

"It's a perfectly logical assumption."

"Do people usually accuse you of being the murderer?" she asks.

"Now and then, yes." Sherlock suddenly jumps onto the chair he's on.

She laughs at his answer. She didn't expect anything else, "So... where did you find this?"

"The killer drove her to Lauriston Gardens. But she left her case in the car and he could only be seen with it by accident. No one could be seen with this case without drawing unwanted attention especially a man, which is statistically more likely."

He shoots away like he did back at the car and she listens intently, nodding. He has her full attention and he carries on, "So obviously he needed to get rid of it. Wouldn't have taken him more than... five minutes to realise that the case was still in his car. I checked every backstreet wide enough for a car five minutes from Lauriston Gardens, and anywhere he could dispose of a conspicuous bulky object such as this without being seen. Took me less than an hour to find the right skip."

"You're really good." Amy smiles, amazed. "You got all that because you knew the case was pink?"

"It had to be pink, obviously." he frowns, as if she's asked the easiest question in the world.

"_I _didn't know"

"Because you're an idiot."

She looks at him incredulously, at the first outright expression of rudeness and really, she doesn't know if her shock is due to his words or the fact that someone could be so naturally rude to someone they've know only for a few hours. He seems to have noticed her expression and waves a hand in the air.

"No, no, no, don't look like that. Practically everyone is-"

Oh no you don't-

"Are you always this rude?" she blurts out before he can carry on.

"Sorry?" he stops, slightly taken aback, maybe at the speed of which she interrupted him. She's secretly surprised at her own reflexes too.

"You heard me. Are you always this… truthful... to the people you meet?"

"Problem?"

She lets out a sound of disbelief at his complete lack of guilt, bashfulness or any other hint of shame at his fault, "Yes! You're asking me for help -"

"Who said I was asking you for help?

"Um... Why did you call me from the other side of London then - no don't say it was for the text. If you really needed to send it you could have just sent it yourself. And why are you even telling me all this? You could just talk to your skull or -"

"Skull just attracts attention. And Mrs Hudson took it." Sherlock replies.

She snorts, "Well no one's watching. Wait I'm the substitute for your skull?

"Relax, you're doing fine. Now, look. Do you see what's-"

"From the case? No idea - How could I - idiot remember?"

He gives her a momentary look as if trying to understand her currently infuriated mind and answers a little less condescendingly, although he's rubbing it (her ignorance) in anyway, "Her phone. Where's her mobile phone? There was no phone on the body, there's no phone in the case -"

"Maybe she left it somewhere - Home, perhaps?"

"She has a string of lovers and she's careful about it. She wouldn't leave it somewhere she could be found out, not to mention that text you just sent-"

"Um... Why did I just send that text?" Amy asks nervously.

"Well, the question is where is her phone now?"

"She lost it?"

"Yes, or maybe? -"He rebuts her suggestion as if explaining something to a small child, something he already knows the answer of and reached the conclusion to ages ago. And it dawns on her -

"The murderer... You think the murderer has her phone?"

"Maybe she left it in his car or he took it from her for some reason. Either way, the most probable outcome is the murderer has her phone." He concludes and leaves her in a momentary confusion and horror at where this is heading.

"Wait, what are we- Who did I just text? Did I just text a murderer? What's the point?"

The impact of what she's just done without thought hits her like a blow to the chest and feelings of dread and panic creep up from behind her -

As life and drama would have it, her phone goes off, all too clearly and loudly in the now silent room. She sneaks a look at Sherlock who looks like Rory does when he finds a car he likes in a magazine: expectant, joyful, gleeful, _I knew this was going to happen it's all too perfect-_

"A few hours after his last victim, and now he receives a text that can only be from her. If a random stranger just found that phone they'd ignore the text but the murderer, would panic" Sherlock snaps the suitcase shut and she jumps again (she is awfully jumpy today but what did you expect, being in the middle of a serial murder case).

Talk about dramatics -

"Are you going to the police?" Amy stands up in suit and watches him dash about the room, picking stuff up, putting on his coat.

"Four people are dead, and more will be - There isn't time to talk to the police." Sherlock answers brusquely, putting his gloves on.

"Then why did you tell me?"

He nods to the mantelpiece which is still messy but bare in one corner where the skull was a few hours ago. He finishes whipping his scarf on and looks at her expectantly –

"Well?"

"Well, what?" She replies.

"Well you could just sit there or watch telly." he answers sardonically, disapproving of the 'telly'.

Amy gives a short laugh "You want me to come with you?"

"I like company when I go out, and I think much better when I talk aloud. The skull just attracts attention."

"You could pretend to recite Shakespeare, you know… Pretend to be reciting Hamlet" she motions, waving her arms about, "Alas, poor Yorik"

He smirks slightly and she finds that with all her irritation, she's grinning too.

"Coming?" His body language screams I'm-ready-to-go-so-hurry-up-for-god's-sake-

"God she was right" Amy replies, being reminded of Sergeant Donovan's words earlier.

"Who was?" Sherlock frowns.

"Sergeant Donovan. She said you enjoy this kind of stuff. You get off on it."

"I said "dangerous", and here you are."

He has her there.

"_You're here because you wanted to know… What the world was like outside… waiting to escape… you needed it."_

Oh shoot -

* * *

"Where are we going?" Amy asks, shivering even with her scarf and struggling through the wave of people. Sherlock glides through them with ease or maybe people just part for him, like the sea did for Moses.

"Northumberland Street. Only a five-minute walk from here." Sherlock replies.

"You think he's stupid enough to go there? He might get caught."

"No he's brilliant enough. I love the brilliant ones -"

"How is that brilliant? Wanting to get caught?" she asks in surprise.

"Appreciation! Applause! The standing ovation and at long last the spotlight. It's the frailty of genius, Amy. It craves an audience." Sherlock explains and she wonders if it applies to him as well. Obviously she hasn't known him very long but she has a feeling that he is a genius, with all that quick, amazing and precise thinking, like a human machine and the way he sees things.  
"This is his hunting ground." Sherlock goes on, turning to her and explaining excitedly, "Right here in the heart of the city. Now we know his victims were abducted, that changes everything."

"How?"

"All of his victims disappeared from busy streets, crowded places but nobody, not a single person saw them go"

"The killer was someone they knew? But four random people. They don't have anything in -"

"Exactly, so think! Who do we trust, even though we don't know them?"

"The postman?" she adds, jokingly. Sherlock ignores her and goes on.

"Who passes unnoticed, wherever they go? Who hunts in the middle of a crowd?"

The way he says it is like from some sort of documentary where shortly he will reveal the answer. She won't be surprised if he's got it by now.

"Who?"

"Haven't the faintest. Hungry?" His tone changes suddenly and he stops her in front of a restaurant. So he wasn't just walking mindlessly after all. The place looks familiar and she looks up at the sign.

Oh.

"Sherlock I-"

But he's already inside. She sighs and follows him in.

"Thank you, Billy."

Sherlock is already at the table and even has his coat draped on the chair by the time she weaves through the chairs and tables and finally spots him by the window.

"22 Northumberland Street. Keep your eyes on it." He tells her as she sits down opposite him and pulls off her scarf. It's warm in here.

"He's not going to knock on the door is he? He's got to be crazy-"

"He has killed four people." Sherlock snipes in and she falters a bit.

"Ok… Good point." She reminds herself again that she is on the trail of a serial killer. This is very real. Not a book or a movie, but with real people and real deaths-

"Sherlock!" A familiar voice and accent calls and she freezes. "Anything on the menu, whatever you want on the house, for you and for your - Amy?"

Angelo, her new would be boss and Sherlock stare at her surprise.

"Hello Angelo - /You know him?"

"I'm supposed to work here. Tomorrow, actually." she explains to Sherlock.

"Good to see you've met Sherlock, Amy" Angelo is delighted, "This man got me off a murder charge."

What?

Sherlock, seeing her confused expression, steps in, "Since you've already met him I'll skip introductions. Three years ago I proved to Lestrade at the time of a particularly vicious triple murder that Angelo was in a completely different part of town, house-breaking."

"Oh."

"He cleared my name." Angelo says. Amy sees he's more than happy to see Sherlock. Sherlock certainly has his fair share of acquaintances.

"I cleared it a bit. Anything on the other side?" Sherlock adds.

"No. But for this man, I'd have gone to prison."

"You did go to prison." Sherlock points out but Angelo doesn't seem to listen and says, "I'll get a candle for the table. It's more romantic."

"Romantic?" Amy blurts to the retreating back of Angelo, who seems to have the idea she's on a date. With Sherlock.

Oh never mind.

"You may as well eat. We might have a long wait" Sherlock says.

"What about you?"

Sherlock doesn't answer and looks out the window. The buzzing of the other tales fills the space between them but she can't help feel uncomfortable at just sitting and doing nothing at all. They must look really weird with her sitting awkwardly and looking around and Sherlock just staring out the window. Luckily, Angelo comes back with promised candle, giving her a thumbs up as he goes away to serve other guests. She gives him a small smile and tries a conversation with Sherlock.

"So you don't just solve murder cases then?"

"No. I cover other cases here and then, anything I find that interests me."

"You get around then?" she throws another question, tearing off a bit of the bread that's just arrived and handing a piece to Sherlock who refuses it. They lapse into silence again, but Amy is persistent. She asks the unanswered question from the flat.

"People don't have arch-enemies. Not really."

"Sorry?" Sherlock's head snaps to her.

"I said people don't really have arch-enemies. Not in real life. It's just stuff that happens in movies"

Sherlock raises an eyebrow "Sounds a bit dull."

"So who did I meet? Why won't you tell me?"

"What do real people have then," Sherlock ignores her question again and asks one in return, "in their...'real lives'?"

_"_Friends, girlfriends, boyfriends. They watch telly, they play football, they go down the pub. Hang out with people they like, don't like... stuff like that."

"Yes, well, as I was saying dull." Sherlock replies, as if she's just proved a point.

The food comes and she tucks in hungrily, "You don't have a girlfriend, then?"

Amy asks after a few mouthfuls. Something that's just struck her and is now worrying her. If she moves in won't the (if he has one) girlfriend mind? Seeing that he's looking for a flatmate, she thinks it's most likely that he doesn't have one but she wants to make sure. Not that she's interested - yet. He is kind of... okay, especially in this light. His eyes are really nice but so is the rest of him as she 'checks' him out properly for the first time.

Definitely okay. Kind of.

"Girlfriend? No, not really my area."

"Oh, right -"She nods, letting herself a slight smile of relief then stops at the implications.

"What about a...boyfriend?" Sherlock turns to her again and she adds quickly, "Which is fine. Really I don't mind" She honestly doesn't mind. Really.

"I know it's fine." Sherlock cuts in.

"So you've got a boyfriend then?" Amy asks tentatively.

"No."

Big yes. In her head of course.

"Right. Ok. Single like me." She realises that she's said the last part out loud and grins when she catches his eye.

"Amy um… This isn't my area either -"

"What flirting? It's mine."

She leans in closer and is grinning from ear to ear now because it's just funny. It's funny watching him being uncomfortable after his complete over confidence and knowledge of the whole situation and then being totally awkward at flirting on her behalf –

Turning tables indeed.

"I think you should know that I consider myself married to my work, and while I'm flattered at your interest I'm really not looking for any-"

No, no, no - You've got it all wrong -

She bursts out giggling, drawing attention from a few nearby tables and a look of surprise from Sherlock. It's the most honest expression she's had from him today.

"I'm not asking silly. God it's just flirting it won't kill you honestly. You're worse than Rory when he was sixteen. I'm just saying, it's all fine. Whatever you're 'area' is, I'm fine with it. I'm happy for you." she answers after she's quieted down a bit and Sherlock looks a bit relieved.

He's so expressionless it's hard to tell when his face changes. It's very subtle, but she's always been in touch with the mood of people.

"Good. Thank you." he nods curtly and continues to stare out the window. She's still giggling a bit as she eats. The laughing has made her feel more relaxed and less distant with Sherlock. More herself. He isn't all brains and logic apparently, and there is still someone inside that poker face, like her. Someone who's conflicted, is apprehensive, confused and taken aback, like her.

"You're like an owl or a Roman century or something. Actually you might look good in armour."

Sherlock gives a sound of amusement then suddenly calls her attention. "Look across the street. Taxi. It's stopped."

"What about it?" Amy freezes slightly at his change in tone giving him a peek. Sherlock is unmoving and she helps herself to another quick mouthful of food.

"Nobody getting in and nobody's getting out. Why a taxi?"

"The murderer?"

"Oh, that's clever. Is it clever? Why is it clever?" Sherlock's voice is low and he goes off into talking to himself mode. She looks up from her nearly finished meal and sees a man about to step into a taxi.

"That's him? The murderer?"

"Don't stare." Sherlock gives her quick look.

"Why not? You're staring."

"We can't both stare."

She snorts at the ridiculous logic and watches Sherlock who stands up to leave, taking his coat. Amy drinks up the water, stands up waves at Billy at the door and follows suit. Sherlock's in front of the restaurant, eyes still on the car and adjusting his coat collar.

"The car's still there -"

She memorises the cab number, just in case. A habit from her teenage years when she'd sit at the bus stop and watched the cars go by.

"Yes."

She looks over his shoulder and sees the passenger at the back of the taxi, looking directly at them. The taxi starts and she stares. Sherlock who's seen it too, suddenly bolts, rolling over the bonnet of a car that suddenly leaps from nowhere. She runs too, dodging past the car and mumbling a word of apology. She stops in front of Sherlock.

"I've got the cab number."

"Good for you. Right turn, one way, road works, traffic lights, bus lane, pedestrian crossing, left turn only, traffic lights."

Sherlock starts babbling random things and she stares at him wondering what the hell he's on about. Sounds like some sort of map? He probably has the whole London A-Z in his head. His head jerks up as if he's got it, and suddenly makes for the alley, knocking past a few bystanders

"Sorry."

She follows him, mumbling a hasty apology to the poor bystander. She scrambles after him into the alleyway.

"Come on Amy!"

* * *

**E/N:** And on with the chase.

CrystalSearcher, yes it is really hard to adapt one character from a completely different world to another WITHOUT borrowing elements from the said character's world. I mean it'd be easier to have the common Amy and Sherlock are bfs while she waits for the Doctor or a variation of that story line etc but I wanted to try this (I was thinking isn't anyone going to write Amy as Sherlock's flatmate, not John then I thought, well why don't I do it?). And now I've brought it upon myself, I must carry on. I have many problems coming up, esp. with tGG (I haven't even finished this one yet), if you think about towards the end of the episode you'll understand why.

Did anyone get the CBS Elementary reference last chapter when Sherlock says "Not everything is deduced."? Johnny Lee Miller's Sherlock says it when Joan asks him how he knew she was a doctor and he says he googled it, and the line above. I just thought it was really funny;) And I am one of the few people really looking forward to Elementary:)

I've made Amy catch up with Sherlock quicker than John, as she gets more comfortable with him. She's quite a quick thinking, clever young lady (not that John isn't, perhaps for the young lady bit) and I'd like to use that full potential. I mean, the Doctor took her on, and as the man guarantees, he only takes the best. The best which are clever, smart, resourceful, that have a kind heart that gets enhanced with their travels with him. I think Amy (and Rory) were very good characters with lots of interesting potentials. Especially Amy in The Beast Below where she uses her on experiences and unique perception and realises that the Star Whale came willingly, something that even the Doctor overlooked. She didn't have to hold a gun and look cool with it, but instead used just simple brainwork. And then after that typical 'companion proves their worth' episode, she has her moments but little opportunity to show more of that spark and cleverness since Moffat was too busy dealing River's story arc with the Doctor, something that extended to Season 6 and possibly to this Season as well. Not to compare, since I love both writers differently, but RTD's era girls and boys had many moments of awesomeness, without physical fighting but just pure simple logic and their own keen perceptions and cleverness. Donna with her knowledge from her temp days to find out no one got sick, Martha telling off Joan Redfern how she was just as good and that she was a real Doctor, with even more knowledge than her, Rose working out in the Olympic episode that all the little alien needed was love, hence the Olympic torch, etc. And then Amy's importance was usually about her being the girl who waited, the girl who remembered which was something she got because of the crack she grew up with.

So in short, Amy has a lot of potential and I'd like to use it. STOP.

Right, finished my whatever I wanted to say:) Read and review people because it helps me write better and makes me extremely happy:)


	7. Chapter 6:Follow the Black Cab

**A/N:** Nothing belongs to me.

* * *

**Chapter 6: Follow the Black Cab**

"Come on Amy!"

Amy doesn't even bother to answer as she ducks into another alley.

She actually can't. Her lungs are burning and choking out some disgusting stuff (carbon dioxide?) while the cold air is trying to squeeze its way through her airway with little success. Her heart is threatening to blow up and she's worried that she might go into cardiac arrest. She won't, but still. Her head sings with anticipation, thrill, blood and fresh adrenaline and she can feel every bit of her body. But her chest is clenched tight into an agonising lump (she's going to have some horrible stitches, and momentarily cringes at the thought). She catches Sherlock's coat (the only thing in her sight now, the rest - lights and shops and people - are all a frenzy of blinding colour symphony). Her desperate breath is the only thing reminds her that she is fully functioning.

"We're losing him!"

"So?!"

She screams out as loud as she can to Sherlock's urging – he's like an alarm clock ("We're losing him!", "Come on!", "Amy!") and the frustration of flying over rooftops, jumping over rubbish bins, knocking over (Sherlock) and apologising (her) to people, diving in and out of streets is getting to her.

True, it's exhilarating; she hasn't run this much, nor this fast since her primary school days with Mels and Rory, but at the same time this is all too much in the middle of London, chasing - what was it again?

Oh, a potential serial killer.

The thought hits her and suddenly all this fun she's having doesn't seem that exciting. The familiar tingling sensation spreads through her finger tips. The feeling of apprehension and heart-stopping realisation rings throughout her body: she's running through the street of London chasing a serial killer.

"Amy!"

As soon as the thought comes Amy swings past a lamppost at the sound of Sherlock's voice and turns yet another corner. She speeds up to catch Sherlock as she weaves her way past a few people and the thought is gone, running is just so much fun -

She ducks into an alley way, closely tailing the long black coat of Sherlock's; it's still the only thing in her sight as the rest (the walls, the bins, cheap flashy posters and bright lights) fade out into the shadows of the night. They run out the alley into a brighter street. She hopes and believes that Sherlock knows where he's going. He's the type that's sure of himself from what she's seen so far. Very sure. A bit rude and possibly a bit very arrogant but somewhat reassuring. He hasn't exactly been wrong (the amazing deductions of her back at the cab and the crime scene proves it) about anything yet so she hopes he knows what he's doing, chasing the -

Oomph -

She slams body - first into something firm and scratchy.

Amy stumbles back a few steps and sees it's Sherlock, and the scratchy thing was his coat.

"Open up! Police!"

Sherlock bangs on the door and strides to the back of the car. All energy and breathlessness.

They've caught up with the taxi.

She gathers up her senses and follows Sherlock to the back of the car where he wrenches the door of the car open. She's out of breath and gasping. Behind Sherlock's coat and heavy breathing she can see the face of a very confused man.

"No, no -" Sherlock steps back. Frustrated.

"What what is it?" Amy manages to gasp out.

"Teeth, tan what - Californian?" Sherlock's practically babbling, the words from his mouth spilling out with alarming precision despite the harsh breaths.

"What? Are you doing your – thing -" she's gasping, gulping not getting a word of his rambles.

"LA, Santa Monaco. Just arrived." he finishes, not answering her question again.

"How? Do you -"

"The suitcase." He steps aside and she catches the suitcase at the foot of the very confused man.

"Uh... Probably your fist trip to London right? Going by your final destination and the route the cabbie was taking you -" Sherlock's tone shifts ever so slightly, Amy swears she can practically hear her eyebrows go up. It's the same voice, same _him_ but less proud and clipped - more reassuring, somehow professional. A big wow - and she thought she was a good actress.

"Sorry, are you guys the police?" Their confused American speaks up for the first time. Amy supposes she'd be bewildered too if a strange man and a girl jumped in front of her cab and opened the door.

"Yeah. Everything all right?"

Amy watches in fascination as she sees Sherlock step into the air of a police officer. He even flashes something that looks very convincingly like a police badge. The passenger nods with a funny "What the heck" smile and a short "Yeah."

"Good, and uh -"

Amy senses that despite Sherlock's fantastic ad-lib, the situation is going to turn out quite awkward. Even more awkward than then times she used to sit by the school office, waiting to pick Mels up from the Head's under the knowing gaze of the school secretary. She decides to step in with her own impressive acting skills.

"Sorry for the abrupt.., uh ambush." she says brightly and the two men turn their attention towards her, "It's been quite hectic this week, especially the last few days… Anyway, thank you for your co-operation, let us know if you have any problems during your stay and -"

She's running out of things to say - Oh help.

And then like godsend, Sherlock comes into the picture again:

"Yeah. Welcome to London."

And before anyone has to say anything he shuts the door to the cab and it drives off.

"Not the murderer?" Amy casually quips. Sherlock's pacing around ruffling his hair slightly. The running's done him some good - He looks less like a statue and a bit more human. Decomposed gone good. She, on the other hand is slowly regaining her breath and brushes away a tumble of windswept hair.

"No, no the murderer. Wrong country -"

"Good alibi. Got that Sergeant Holmes."

Sherlock stops and looks at her, his face matching her grin.

"It's actually Detective Inspector."

He fishes out the badge and hands it towards her. She steps closer and takes the badge.

"Detective Inspector… Lestrade?"

"I pickpocket him when he's annoying. You can have it. I've got loads back at the flat" Sherlock answers evenly, almost back to normal breathing. She laughs out loud into the night.

"Oh I bet you do."

They stand in silence, the sort that comes with first acquaintances again. It's less awkward than it was in the cab to the crime scene, perhaps due to running round London together chasing after an innocent cab.

She should do that when she meets strangers at a party; ask them for a jog around the garden or something. Or London -

"What?" Sherlock frowns at her sudden outburst.

"No its just-" she giggles, the sound seeping out of her lips. "I mean. Seriously, welcome to London? What are we a tourist info desk?"

Amy barely finishes the sentence before she giggles harder and Sherlock joins with a snicker.

"Got your breath back?" he asks after the snickers have calmed down a bit.

She clears her throat, "Yeah."

"Better go then. Before we get arrested." Amy looks at where he's staring at and sees the American passenger not gone but talking to an actual police officer.

"Arrest? They wouldn't dare DI Holmes."

With a smirk at her words Sherlock turns around and she straightens up, jogging after him.

"Besides, I bet you'd escape in five minutes or something."

* * *

The door to 221B is friendly and she's glad to see it. Amy's surprised at how attached she's gotten to a door within a few hours. She hangs up her coat next to Sherlock's in the hallway.

"That was ridiculous. Really ridiculous. The second most ridiculous thing I've ever done." Amy says as she leans on the wall next to Sherlock. The flat is considerably warmer than outside, though her body heat is self-sustaining.

"What's the first?"

"Drinking contest with Mels and Rory and Jeff next door on New Year's Eve. In my Aunt's kitchen. Woke up and Mels asked what time it was, and I said never mind the bloody time what's the day? It was already New Year and Mels had a plane to catch in seven hours. Then she hijacked a Double Decker bus."

Amy laughs at the memory and Sherlock does too - she's never ever drunk as much as she did that day. It's an unbroken record, even now five years later. The four of them kept their hands off any form of alcohol for nearly two months and a half.

"Anyway, why aren't we back at the restaurant?" she asks.

"No need. It was a long shot anyway, just to keep an eye."

"So, what were we doing there? Dinner? Date?"

"Oh just… passing the time. And proving a point."

"Point?"

She cocks her head to in a quizzical manner and Sherlock gives her a glance and shifts his gaze downwards.

"Psychosomatic limp."

What - Oh-

There's a rap on the door and she flicks her head towards Sherlock, who nods and says "It's for you."

Amy walks to the door, not knowing what she's going to face -

"Sherlock texted me."

It's Angelo, her will-be boss who's holding out her scarf. Her eyes widen in surprise at how Sherlock had remembered when she'd forgotten that she'd left it in the restaurant; an odd feat in itself. She never forgot her scarf. Never.

She looks back at Sherlock then Angelo who has a smile on his face.

"Thank you." Amy says, and Angelo gives Sherlock a wave and her a nod. "Tomorrow, six all right?"

"Yeah sure."

She closes the door and holds the scarf tight in her hands.

"It's your mother's"

Amy turns around slowly at his voice. "Yeah. How did you - Oh the initials."

The carefully embroidered bright yellow initials on the faded care instruction label are a tell-tale sign.

And something clicks in her that very moment. It makes perfect sense.

She sort of gets how he does his thing, the deductions. She understands what he meant when he was going on about it being obvious.

It's there; the clues, the slips, the signs -

He is just simply more observant and awake than others.

She looks at her scarf, the yellow thread then back at Sherlock. He looks back at her as well with a slightly quizzical expression.

"So this is how you do it. You observe. You look at the obvious. It's all there."

His face is blank, but a shade of surprise is drawn on his face at her words.

It's strange how his face looks in the poor light - other-worldly, different somehow.

"Exactly." Sherlock replies. The tone is just affirmative, not condescending of bragging. Just stating.

"We must look really stupid to you."

* * *

_'Why didn't I think of that?'_

_'Because you're an idiot - Oh don't look like that, most people are -'_

* * *

To her amazement he doesn't comment on her remark but looks at her with a curious expression. Something passes between them, and she can't quite pin - acknowledgement? Understanding?

It's just a flicker, a flash but it was definitely there.

* * *

_'rather than the usual routine he left her.. she kept it…sentiment'_

* * *

"How long?" Sherlock pulls them back to the hallway, out of their respective thoughts.

'"Um... Nineteen years. I was four." she fiddles with the end of the scarf.

"What was it?"

"Car accident. They drove off to Scotland to sort out final payments, bills, that kind of thing. Said a few days at the most. Never came back."

The air is still and Amy wonders why she's saying all this. They were laughing their heads off a few moments ago and now, the hallways is eerily quiet; she wants to crawl into the shadows. She should stop really, but she goes on and the weirdest thing is she doesn't know why.

"I was really young. Don't really remember actually, just lots of people were crying and loads and loads of flowers. Too many- thought I was going to smother in them."

She tries to laugh it off but it doesn't really work and the attempted laugh echoes oddly off the walls. It's not like she's going to start bursting into tears, that's never been her. But the familiar pang of emptiness rings dully in her gut. It feels like regret that she's telling a relative stranger a personal fact in her life but no, she almost wanted to tell him -

"You still miss them?"

Sherlock's tone is somewhat like… a cautious questioning, as if he's not familiar or at ease with it.

"Yeah. A lot."

She looks down at the scarf and fumbles with the tag. It's a bright red but faded with the times she'd hugged it to sleep, worn it, wrapped it around her. She'd rarely worn any other scarf.

There's a shuffling and she looks up to see Mrs Hudson coming out of her flat.

"Oh Sherlock what have you done- Upstairs-"

She's part sobbing in despair and Sherlock bolts up the stairs to his flat after sharing a look with Amy. He wrenches the door open and they rush in.

It's occupied with people searching and digging up the shelves. And at the centre of it is DI Lestrade on an armchair, sitting like a king on the throne, with one leg crossed over the other. It'd look almost comical if she didn't sense the outrage fuming from Sherlock.

"What are you doing?"

Lestrade throws up his hands in the air "Well I know you'd find the case, I'm not stupid."

"You can't just break into my flat."

"Well you can't withhold evidence. And I didn't break in -"

Lestrade isn't a bit intimidated by Sherlock - almost too casual like he's done this before.

"Well what do you call this then?" Sherlock doesn't sound furious, but pissed off. Like a teenager who's annoyed at his dad for just being in his room and touching his stuff. Which in a way it kind of is. Despite the utter supposedly-seriousness, Amy thinks it quite amusing as she watches the two before her. She steps aside as an officer passes her and a laugh threatens to escape again. She briefly wonders about the state of her diaphragm with all the laugh/snicker/giggling she's been doing for the last few hours.

Lestrade looks around the flat and answers casually, as if announcing the weather, "It's a drugs bust."

_What?_

That knocks the humour out of her like a giant thump to the back.

_Sorry, what?_

Before Sherlock has time to retort with a deadly snarky comment, Amy finds herself doing it for him.

"Seriously, him - a junkie? Have you seen him?"

This is just too ridiculous - She moves past Sherlock to face Lestrade who smiles up at her.

"I'm pretty sure you could ransack the whole place and you wouldn't find anything you could call along the lines of -"

"Amy, you might want to shut up now." Sherlock says firmly and dangerously close to her.

She turns her head to face him "Yeah but come on - You? -"

Her gaze falters as she looks at him. Deadly serious. No hint of arrogance, smirk, condescending whatsoever. And he's standing nervously somehow, lacking the brashness he's usually so full to the brim of -

"No. You?"

"What? Shut up." He turns around abruptly, inspecting the other police officers busy with upturning the shelves and kicking up dust. "I'm not your sniffer dog -"

"No Anderson's my sniffer dog."

Lestrade points towards the kitchen and Amy swivels around to see the familiar face a few hours ago.

"Anderson? What are you doing here on a drugs bust?"

"Oh I volunteered." Anderson gives a small sign of hello and is all too smug with the opportunity being presented to him. The smugness is somewhat like Sherlock's, and she decides not to mention it to either of them for her personal safety. Sherlock looks ready to throw him out the window -

(No, the situation's more like dad and annoying brother in pissed off teenager's room. Amy wonders if Sherlock has a brother. Ask him later, not now though.)

Then everyone start talking at once and Amy swivels around like a camera, trying to catch Sherlock locked a lone tennis match, batting against everyone ganging up on him with acrid ferociousness. She would offer to help, but he seems fine on his own.

"They're not exactly on the drugs squad, but they're very keen -"

"Are these _human_ eyes-" Amy flinches and feels exactly like the half horrified and disgusted voice of Sergeant Donovan, coming from the kitchen, holding up a jar of what looks suspiciously like -

"Put those back -"

"They were in the microwave -"

She has a suspicious feeling that Sherlock hadn't been entirely truthful when he said about 'flatmates knowing the worst of each other'.

"What do you expect from him -"

"It's an experiment."

Donovan rolls her eyes and goes back to the dark recesses of whatever else may lie there -

"Keep looking, guys." Lestrade looks back at Sherlock who to Amy now looks like he might throw a tantrum.

"Or you could help us properly and I'll stand them down."

"This is childish." Sherlock retorts.

"Well, I'm dealing with a child. Sherlock, this is our case. I'm letting you in, but you do not go off on your own. Clear?"

The way he says it is vaguely reminiscent of a teacher telling a troublemaker off. A tone Amy's heard once too often in school - directed to mostly Mels but her as well.

"What - so you set up a pretend drugs bust to bully me?"

"It stops being pretend if we find anything."

The words sound unintentionally threatening to Amy she remembers properly for the first time that night that Detective Inspector Lestrade is a professional police officer. And despite all the ridicule that Sherlock gave him, it's actually Lestrade who was the one putting up with Sherlock.

_If we find anything_

She wonders if that's how the two met. She might ask later.

"I am clean!" Sherlock announces amidst the bicker, but he doesn't have that brittle sharp edge to the words. His tone is constantly swinging from indignant to annoyed but always with an underlying hint of nervousness.

She doesn't doubt he would be able to outwit the police, but he seems a little jumpy…-

And Amy would like to make a gif out of Lestrade expression that is the exact definition of "Yeah, right." now. Sherlock rants on about how he doesn't smoke and shows his three patches. Lestrade pulls up his sleeve, showing off his nicotine patches as well. Anderson's smirking in the background and Amy wants to punch his face for some reason and she doesn't think anyone would notice or stop her, Donovan is shouting over another unholy body part; dust is flying around the bookshelves, books dropped on the floor thump thump, Sherlock and Lestrade bickering over -

"Oh for goodness sake girls, you're both lovely, so can we please shut up!" Amy shouts over the din. She points the last two specific words to Sherlock, who has indeed shut up.

"And get on with what we're supposed to be doing and stop acting like a pair of five year olds! You're after a serial killer for heaven's sake, I thought time was crucial? Someone might being dying out their when you're -" she points at Lestrade who's mouth is making its way down the now dusty carpet, "- setting off your officers to gang up on him -" she makes a jab at Sherlock, "- who's too busy snarking at them. Does it matter if there are eyeballs in the microwave or if he's got a secret stash of Barbie Dolls? Can we please get a grip, or do you want to tell the press that you couldn't prevent the latest victim because you told your professionalism to take a holiday while you told off your consultant, Detective Inspector?!"

This, Amy thinks as she fumes slightly, glaring at every single person in the room with one of her death glares that made Rory flinch; is when the proverbial pin could be heard dropping.

Sherlock is the quickest to recover on terms of expression, as the point blank gape of bewilderment shifts into amusement (?)-

Everyone else is deadly still and silent, and though she didn't possess eyes on the back of her head she could feel every single person's gaze on her. After a few tense moments the many pairs of eyes shift between her and Lestrade (who looks as if she'd just turned into a fifty foot bug-eyed alien) wondering what to do and who to listen to -

"Inspector, did you find anything? About the dead woman?" Amy breaks the silence with a much gentler tone.

Lestrade snaps out of the shockwave and clears his throat, "Yeah, we found her. Rachel."

"Who is she?" Sherlock wastes no time and jumps to it.

"Jennifer Wilson's only daughter-"

_Daughter?_

Sherlock's asking the same thing, rambling on about why she would choose to write her daughter's name.

"Never mind that, we found the case. According to someone the murderer has the case, and we found it in the hands of our favourite psychopath."

Amy wants to sock Anderson's smarmy face that isn't helping at all - didn't he just hear her? - but Sherlock with all his years of experience, get to it first, "I'm a high-functioning sociopath. Do your research."

He then turns back to Lestrade talking at the speed of light, "You need to bring Rachel in and I need to question her."

"She's dead. Wait a moment, let me finish. She's been dead for fourteen years because technically she was never alive. Rachel was Jennifer Wilson's still born daughter."

"No, that's... that's not right. Why would she do that? Why?"

Sherlock paces around urgently, confused, face in a frown at the unexpected findings. For some reason unknown to Amy and despite his brilliance, Sherlock has genuine trouble understanding basic, obvious things. Anderson makes some snarky remark in the background. Again.

"She didn't think about her daughter. She scratched her name on the floor with her fingernails. She was dying. It took effort, it would have hurt." Sherlock lashes out viciously. Anderson might not be too bad of an influence seeing as he manages to screw up and stimulate Sherlock at the same time.

"You said that the victims all took the poison themselves. Maybe the - What if the murderer makes her take it by using her daughter's death against her?"

Amy supplies her opinion at an attempt to be helpful, but she's as stumped as the rest of them and she's no Sherlock.

Sherlock turns abruptly and walks right up to her, "But that was ages ago. Why would she still be up-"

He sees the flash in her eyes and she sees the one in his, identical thoughts-

* * *

_'How long?'_

_'Nineteen years… I was four…'_

_'You still miss them?'_

_'Yeah. A lot.'_

* * *

Amy shakes her head slightly.

"Not good?" Sherlock asks, the scathing tone gone.

"Bit not good, yeah."

Sherlock lets out a small sound of frustration and tries a different approach. "Amy, come on think, you know what I mean - If you were murdered, if you were going to die; in your very last few seconds what would you say? What would you think?"

She doesn't have to even think. She knows. That feeling of hope draining out of her yet, desperate enough, the smidgen of hope still clinging onto life to make her wish -

"I don't want to die. Please, please let me live."

"Use your imagination!" Sherlock fires his frustration at her and she feels her face fall.

"I don't have to." Amy replies bluntly and for a moment Sherlock has the decency to let his eyes fall, realising the mistake he's just made.

"Yeah, but if you were really clever, Jennifer Wilson running all those lovers - she was. She's trying to tell us something- ."

His tone is less harsh but still she ignores the blunt pain in her chest as his words sink in. He does have a talent for picking words that really -

"Isn't the doorbell working? Your taxi's here, Sherlock." Mrs Hudson makes a sudden appearance out of the blue. Sherlock snaps back at her and spins around, shouting, knocking things over and upsetting Mrs Hudson (and the others).

Amy leans on the bookshelf and zooms out of the din, to do some thinking of her own. She thinks back to all the murder stories she's read, all the mystery novels, Agatha Christie TV adaptations.

Sherlock's shouting at everyone, erratic, wired -

If she were Jennifer Wilson, why would she write her dead daughter's name on the floor, when it took effort like Sherlock had pointed out?

A clue? A message? A -

"Shut up everybody, shut up! Don't move. Don't speak. Don't breathe. I'm trying to think. Anderson, face the other way. You're putting me off."

Sherlock's voice breaks through her thoughts once again. She puts her hands over her ears.

"What? My face is?" Anderson's outraged voice comes from the kitchen. Lestrade tells him to turn his back in an attempt to get Sherlock to stop being so tetchy.

She looks at her mother's scarf in her hands, the carefully stitched initials.

_'we must look really stupid to you'_

Initials.

She traces the thread with the pads of her thumb, like she'd done so many times, imagining her mum carefully stitching them. She thinks back to al the times she wrote her parents names, back to front, over and over again, so she wouldn't forget. She made sure she never would, when for the first time in primary school, she used her mother's initials and her favourite number for her password. Even after she grew up and Mels found out she didn't change it anyway, out of habit -

Habit.

* * *

_'people do.. sentiment.'_

_'...where's her phone? there was no phone on the body...-'_

* * *

"Sherlock -" she calls.

"Amy shut up -" Sherlock's not even listening and she can almost see the images in his head furiously mapping out the possibilities, the connections -

"Sherlock!" Amy shouts louder and his head snaps to her, with a furious "What?"

"Rachel, what if it's a message. Like a password or something - You said there was no phone. What if she left a note on the phone and -"

Bingo.

The proverbial light bulb practically bursts over Sherlock's head as the frown of annoyance turns into pure glee he gets what she's trying to say -

"Amy, you're brilliant! Get the luggage tag on her suitcase. There's an email address."

Sherlock jumps to the desk, and she doesn't question, just does. It's better that way, she figures.

"What is it?" Lestrade asks.

Sherlock's explaining, rambling and showing off at the same time as he answers the question on everyone's mind and types away furiously on the laptop.

"She was clever. Clever, yes! She's cleverer than you lot and she's dead! Rachel! Don't you get it?"

"Yes and?"

"She didn't lose her phone, she never lost it. When she got out of the car, she knew that she was going to her death. She planted the phone on the killer, so she could lead us to him. Amy, what's the email address?"

"How?" Lestrade asks and Amy calls out the email.

Ah. GPS.

Sherlock's too busy snarking at Lestrade and the rest for being vacant and stupid.

"Sherlock shut up - It's a smartphone," Amy intervenes, explaining to the confused group to stop Sherlock from being hacked to death after the case is over, "You can send and receive emails. Rachel is the password."

"We can read her e-mails. So what?" Anderson as helpful as ever comments. She ignores him but Sherlock cannot resist saying, **"**Anderson, don't talk out loud. You lower the IQ of the whole street."

Very grown-up Sherlock.

But despite her exasperation, she can't help smiling at the creative insult. She might use it later.

"Smartphone, yes. It's GPS enabled so if you lose it we can locate it." she beams as Lestrade's face lights up into understanding.

Sherlock clicks on the search box and calls out, finishing the explanation for her, "Thank you Amy. She's leading us directly to her killer."

"Unless he got rid of it."

"We know he didn't." she says to Lestrade and inches closer to the desk, where the grid map is loading. Sherlock taps at the desk, impatient as ever, on fire -

"Sherlock, dear. This taxi driver..."

Mrs Hudson comes in but is snubbed by Sherlock ordering Lestrade and everyone else about. Amy takes the vacant seat left by Sherlock as the map is finished pinpointing the -

What?

"Sherlock…."

"…Narrows it down from just anyone in London. It's the first proper lead that we've had. Where is it? Quickly, where?"

He rushes over to her side and she points out the anomaly.

"Here. It's... in 221 Baker Street. How is that possible?"

Sherlock's face is contorted into confusion again.

"Maybe it was in the case when you brought it back and it... fell out somewhere." Lestrade says somewhere behind her.

"We texted him. He called back." Amy replies, denying the suggestion.

"Then how is it here? Guys we're looking for a mobile here..."

Lestrade sounds just as confused as she does at the obscure paradox.

"Me... I missed it? How?"

Everyone's moving about, on the search again. She looks at the screen that hasn't changed, indicating that it is definitely in 221B.

Amy thinks for one crazy second, if it was Sherlock all along.

But she was with him all this time. So crazy hypothesis ditched.

She shoots him a glance.

He looks slightly strange, as he tucks the phone into his pocket. She strides over to him and taps his arm.

"Sherlock, you OK?"

"What? Yeah, yeah... I'm fine."

He snaps out of whatever he was in and looks at her.

"So, how can the phone be here? It's a complete paradox. Unless it's in Mrs Hudson's or something." she jokes, smiling. Sherlock doesn't answer. He looks a bit far away actually.

"Don't know."

"I'll try it again." Amy jumps back to the chair, hitching her legs over the gap between the desk and the chair. She re-enters the search category.

"Good idea. I'll just pop outside for a moment. Won't be long."

"Sure."

She sees Sherlock go down the stairs, disappearing on the floor below.

He'll be fine, she reassures herself.

She taps on the laptop, impatiently, waiting for it to re-load.

She waits, looking around at the mess the police have made and swings her foot. Lestrade is standing near the kitchen with the rest.

The screen shows parts of the map flickering into existence.

She stands up and moves some of the unpacked boxes to the side to make some room. Wondering about Sherlock, she looks out the window absently and sees a cab drive off around the corner.

_At the violet hour, when the eyes and back_

_Turn upward from the desk, when the human engine waits._

_Like a..._

The laptop makes a sound and she dashes back to it. The latest result indicates that the phone is still on this street then -

"Inspector…"

Lestrade comes over to the desk and she points to the screen.

"It's moving. The phone. It's not here anymore."

* * *

**E/N: **Gah, back in AGEEEEESSSSS. So so sorry. I have been really busy, being busier in the holidays ans then I lost this chapter TWICE on the Microsoft Word, the bloody thing and I didn't just lose the heart to re-write,it got broken. But still, picked myself up with all the favs and follows, (THANK YOU! YOU MAKE MY DAYS) and wrote it. It might actually have been better since I got to fiddle with some more creative aspects of the story, rather than stick to the original plans so no loss there.

**Story Notes**

So, the question is, where's Sherlock? We all know but Amy doesn't. The good thing about keeping to Amy's POV is that I can cut down on unnecessary repetition the rest of us know due to having watched Sherlock.

**_Amy's Scarf:_**

The scarf in mind is the red one from Vincent and the Doctor, episode 10 of Season 5. The embroidered initials are a thing my mum used to do and still does at times for me. She's put them on my clothes, bag, stuff etc so nobody could actually take them. I thought it was a nice personal touch.

And as for the password thing, its something we all do isn't it? Make it something personal, something we can remember. Whether its a pet or a favourite book or whatever. To a girl who lost her parents at a very young age it would be something, someone she misses the most, her mother. Hence Amy's understanding of why Jennifer Wilson would choose to write her daughter's name as opposed to Sherlock's complete obliviousness.

**_'At the Violet hour...':_**

The poem in the last part is the one Amy recites in her head in Chapter 4 when Mycroft tries to scare her with his "moving camera trick". To those of you who know it, the last line completed is the solution to how exactly the killer manages to snatches his victims. I just thought it was kind of fitting.

Review, sweeties! Makes my day (and nights;)


	8. Chapter 7:Where's Sherlock?

**A/N:**

Back in black  
I hit the sack  
I've been too long I'm glad to be back  
Yes I'm, let loose  
From the noose  
That's kept me hanging about  
I keep looking at the sky  
'Cause it's gettin' me high  
Forget the herse 'cause I'll never die  
I got nine lives  
Cat's eyes  
Usin' every one of them and running wild

'Cause I'm back  
Yes, I'm back  
Well, I'm back  
Yes, I'm back  
Well, I'm back, back  
(Well) I'm back in black

You can never get enough of AC/DC.

Hehe:) No, this IS the author's note and I'm using the lyrics to Back in Black to express my finally being.. well back.

Schoolwork! Thank you for the reviews, the favs, the follows you fantastic people, you!

Now on with the chapter as we reach the near end of Study in Pink.

* * *

**Chapter 7: Where's Sherlock?**

In the end it all boils down to _love._

Obvious.

He's never really understood why people have pined over that one emotion. He thinks back briefly, letting his mind wonder beyond the door to his past. There was once a time that he was so full of _feeling _- children always feel too much.

_Past tense._

He grew up behind closed doors and very little contact with anything and anyone, except the giant looming figure that was his brother. Such an overbearing presence, always ahead of him and very rarely at home. That left the youngest Holmes child alone, left to wander in and out empty rooms sprawled with books and half finished experiments.

He wanted to escape that, the boredom, silence and the echoes inside his head.

A teenager; too thin, too pale, too bony, too tall. Very few people gave him a second glance. Spotty boy leaning against a pale yellow brick wall with a book in his hand or just standing there, observing everything. Nothing exceptional, but eerily unnerving with eyes too bright at times. It frightened people, friends, relatives and kept them away. They objectified him and pulled him into the butt of their attempted jokes. Others with half a brain would inquire of employ him for their needs. No loss, even if they were tedious. The trivial thing he did for them bought him favours and he supposes a great deal of cash.

Big things have small beginnings and they became the basis for his consulting work.

_("...Your much to clever for your own good son... It might get you into trouble...")_

The moments flicker past him like a film trailer (when was the last time he saw one?) and he remembers that those fragments eventually became him. Though in the end, he grew up and out of it. All those little things, so small but so distracting. Out of being needy, being clingy, feeling different, out of his brother's looming presence -

And into something of his own.

Mummy quite often told him that he was very much like her. Too much, she would sometimes say. He never responded but privately agreed. Still, there was always that little nagging at the corner of his mind.

He learnt the 'uncaring' nature from someone else entirely.

_Care, sentiment, attachment._

He's never really been attached to anything except for a very few things. Even they weren't what normal people would consider as 'attachment' - more like a brief spell of obsession and perhaps, passion. He understands the basic mechanics, the irrational but strangely compelling nature of 'people'. But it has never really struck a chord or blossomed a colour inside him.

_Love?_

Maybe. Once? He isn't quite sure though. He never dwelt on that particular time of his life afterwards and he never asked anyone.

There wasn't really anyone to ask.

His brother, as expected picked something up and inquired him twice but never more, leaving it to stay as vague suspicions. He probably couldn't believe that his younger, unpredictable brother would be like that, so _normal_.

A small quirk of his lips at that particular memory. Should he have been hurt that his own brother saw him in an ultimately same shade as the rest of the world? Or rather was it his fault, or his brilliance, in keeping up the act of being the seemingly completely detached thinking machine?

_Was _it an act?

_... four times.. just to kill strangers?...__shaving foam, left ear. Noticeable yet unaware… nobody's pointed out_

_lives alone… no one else._

_photograph of children… mother's been cut out._

_Sentiment._

_If she died, the photo would be whole. __old but new frame, loves children… but only sees them in that one photo. __divorce, estranged father. Love, pain_

_Clothes… clean but old - three years?_

_Keeping up but no planning-_

_..Terminal._

_Murder out of bitterness?_

_No._

_Love is a much more vicious. People die for it, throw away dignity, pride, riches -_

_Love, children, pain -_

_What's the incentive?_

A ringing sound pulls him out and he sees the phone, Jennifer Wilson's phone ringing. He knows who it is.

_Amy Pond._

The other puzzle in his mind.

_Why?_

Something is not right about her and he can't quite grasp it. Like that one odd loop poking out from a handmade sweater or a single hair on some business man's immaculate suit, it bothers him. He's seen many people. He's seen people interested in his line of work. He _is _the only one in the world and no doubt a unique freelancing job would provoke interest in people with boring daily lives and identical jobs. People are like that, attracted to new things, novelties, unique details that stand out in a subtle manner. It's a universal trait that even he couldn't shrug off.

She's young, too curious for her own good and has a taste for adventure. Tenacity, he gives credit to - very few people manage to keep up their heads among police or not flinch at the sight of dead bodies. Even fewer have the mind to shout at Scotland Yard officers on a drugs bust and stand like they belong there. He's met people, people who put up with him, which he knows is a very little -

_But why?_

She doesn't even know him.

The phone rings again and again and his mind races -

_'I didn't kill those four people, Mr Holmes. I spoke to them... And they killed themselves.'_

How did the cabbie do it? The engines of the taxi throb smoothly through the dark streets. He's on his way to find answers, to know. The cabbie's right. Anyone else but him would have called the police.

Everyone else…

'_If you get the coppers now, I'll promise you one thing. I will never tell you what I said.'_

Interest.

'_And you'll never understand how those people died.'_

Curiosity.

_'What kind of result do you care about?'_

**Care?**

The phone stops ringing but it starts again.

Persistence.

She hasn't known him very long, if at all.

He hasn't given her anything to buy her fascination or attraction. He understands that she finds his deductions compelling and intriguing; something which he hasn't encountered in a long time that he's forgotten what it feels like.

But did a momentary spike of intellectual curiosity trigger such honesty and fearlessness, along with a nearly unbelievable amount of willingness to put faith in his words and actions? He's seen the shadows, the flickers of hesitation and instinctive wariness in her green irises; in the end though, her actions told differently as she acted completely against her feelings and rationality to follow him, spiraling through the alleyways of London -

_Why would she care?_

* * *

Amy hears the sound of engines and looks out the window. She sees the red backlights and the image of them completes the lines in her head she's been reciting all day:

_At the violet hour, when the eyes and back_

_Turn upward from the desk, when the human engine waits._

_Like a… taxi throbbing waiting._

Taxi?

"Inspector. Sherlock… He just got in a cab."

"What?"

Lestrade comes over to her but the taxi has already disappeared.

"I told you, he does that. He bloody left again. We're wasting our time!"

Sergeant Donovan cries out in frustration and the rest of the Yarders mumble similar words in response. Amy doesn't answer and her brows furrow. Maybe it's the painful twist in her gut that tells her bluntly; something isn't right. Perhaps it's the genre savvyness acquired after too many movies, too many detective novels - she doesn't know where the queasiness comes from. Sherlock does things for a reason, that much she knows. Why would he just suddenly disappear in the middle of a case when he was on the verge of finding the killer? She pulls her phone out of her pocket and punches in Jennifer Wilson's number. She rushes to the desk and hits the search button.

"Come on… pick up."

She looks at Lestrade who looks as confused as she feels.

"I'm... calling the phone, it's ringing out. Which means it isn't here. I'm searching for the phone again."

Her heart feels heavy and she swallows. _What now Sherlock? Why didn't you say?_

"Does it matter? Does any of it? He's a lunatic, and he'll always let you down."

Donovan barges across the room and almost shouts at Lestrade. But despite the frustration in her voice, she seems… upset. She looks at Amy, almost looking like she feels… sorry?

"And you're wasting your time Miss Pond."

The tension is suddenly so thick Amy doesn't know how to breathe through it.

"OK, everybody..."

Thank goodness for Lestrade.

"Our work's done here. Let's pack up."

* * *

"How did you find me? My website?"

He breaks the silence with a simple question. Traffic. Urgh.

"Oh, I recognised you. As soon as you stopped my cab. Very clever Mr Holmes. I've been on your site. Brilliant stuff! Science of deduction. I was recommended by someone who's very interested in you."

This catches his interest slightly but he doesn't meet the man's gaze. The cabbie seems to detect it and he smirks.

"They warned me about you."

"Who warned you about me?"

"An interested party."

"Who? Who would notice me?"

Notice.

It's not a word he's familiar with. Not when it's directed to him. No one has, and he's used it to his benefit plenty of times. It doesn't matter anyway.

"You're too modest, Mr Holmes."

_Modest?_ Mycroft would die from laughing, "I'm really not."

"Well then. You've got yourself a fan."

* * *

Scotland Yard is moving out with the last of the stuff, leaving the flat as it is, upturned by their searching.

Not that it was any cleaner before.

They're leaving and Amy wants to stop them somehow; don't go. Stay and help me, what about Sherlock? But their business here is done and who is she to stop them when she doesn't have any substantial evidence?

"What about Sherlock?" she calls out desperately in an attempt to halt Lestrade.

"What about him?"

"He wouldn't just leave - I know he's impulsive but still; he was on the brink of finding out who the killer was. Why did he do that? Just - go?"

Lestrade shrugs. "Bugs me too but I don't know any better than you do. You're right but… this is Sherlock Holmes we're talking about."

"How long have you known him?"

"Five years. I know you never really know people. My own mother confuses me at times. But Sherlock..." Lestrade shakes his head. Amy nods in understanding. No adjectives or verbs.

Just _Sherlock._

"You put up with him. I know he thinks he's doing you a massive favour and putting up airs and graces but that's not true is it? You're the one tolerating. It's like -"

"Like?" Lestrade asks in interest.

"Like a son and dad. Or teacher and student." Amy adds sheepishly. Lestrade smiles and she joins in.

"What about you Miss Pond? You're not from around here?"

"Amy. Me? I just met him today."

"But you're solving cases with him. You've come back with him to_ here._"

"No it's not that," she shakes her head, "I was looking for a flatmate. A friend of mine at St. Barts introduced me to Sherlock."

Lestrade is gawping slightly. "Friend?"

"Yup. Best friend actually. And yeah I'm not from here, I'm from Leadworth. Came down here for a break."

"You came to London for a break?" he asks incredulously. Amy folds her arms, sits on the armrest and laughs nervously.

"Don't your parents worry?"

Parents again. Sore spot.

"No. I live with my aunt. My parents died when I was four."

"I'm sorry."

An apologetic expression crosses his face and Amy knows he means it. A genuine contrast to Sherlock, she thinks.

"No it's okay. Happened ages ago. Um..." she coughs slightly and stands up, straightening her skirt. "I just came down here, bumped into Sherlock, got swept away - Crazy day." She mumbles out the words quickly, a habit of hers when she's nervous or in an awkward situation. "So why do you put up with him Inspector?"

Lestrade looks at her for a moment and answers resignedly, "Because I'm desperate, that's why. Because Sherlock Holmes is a great man, a brilliant one and I think one day, if we're very, very lucky, he might turn out to be a good one."

* * *

They've stopped. "Where are we?"

"You know every street in London."

"Roland-Kerr Further Education College. Why here?" he recites, fighting the urge to sigh in annoyance. Serial killers cannot seem to fight the urge to expel dramatic pauses -

"It's open."

Fair enough.

"One thing about being a cabbie - you always know a nice quiet spot for a murder. I'm surprised more of us don't branch out."

_Death... what would it bring him? Fame? Glory? Money?-_

"And you just walk your victims in? How?"

The cabbie pulls out a gun. Or rather a prop gun. A glance tells him it's not real.

"Oh... Dull."

Oh ordinary people… The reason they didn't run as soon as they realised they got the wrong cab.

* * *

Amy darts around frantically. She's decided to go along with her gut instinct, and go under the assumption that Sherlock is the trouble or is going to be in it. Sherlock is brilliant, a genius a far as she can make out but he's only human, not some super powerful alien or god.

Think Amy, think. All those games you played, the whodunnits, the guesses.

"Amy calm down, he's Sherlock. He'll be fine."

She's managed to persuade Lestrade to stay a few more minutes.

_Name tag, initials -_

Sherlock correctly deduced what her scarf meant to her. She grabs a piece of scrap paper and a fountain pen and scribbles out what she knows.

"He's not superman Inspector!"

_Poison, taken willingly by the victims. Five victims. In places they shouldn't have been. They didn't know each other. Random people._

_Jennifer Wilson, victim number five planted her phone on the killer. She knew she would die._

_The phone Amy texted. The murderer called back so it can't be in Baker Street. But why did the search engine say that it was in 221B?_

_Even if going under the crazy plot twist that Sherlock was the serial killer (he's clever enough) it doesn't make sense, it's a paradox since he was with her when the murderer called back._

_WHAT?_

Amy screams in frustration and stomps around. She sits on the windowsill, and bangs her forehead on the cool glass, trying to think.\\

Stupid stupid stupid. Sherlock made it seem so easy.

A car goes past.

_He got in the cab. Why?_

_Like a taxi throbbing waiting…_

_The search engine says the phone was in 221B-_

_Who said it had to be __**in **__221B?_

_What did Sherlock say in Northumberland street?_

* * *

_"All of his victims disappeared from busy streets, crowded places but nobody, not a single person saw them go"_

_"The killer was someone they knew? But four random people. They don't have anything in -"_

_"Exactly, so think! Who do we trust, even though we don't know them?"_

_"The postman?" _

_"Who passes unnoticed, wherever they go? Who hunts in the middle of a crowd?"_

* * *

She jumps up, as realisation jolts through her like lightening -

He had it, he was on the right track all along, the right answers -

Bingo Pond!

"I think I got it -"

"What? What is it?" Lestrade sits up from the chair and asks her.

Her head whips to the desk as she hears the search engine blare. She runs to the desk and it confirms her suspicions.

Oh shoot -

"Inspector…"

Lestrade comes over to the desk and she points to the screen.

"It's moving. The phone. It's not here anymore."

* * *

He sits opposite the cabbie in the large hall. Silent. Not even the traces of the loud students remain. Everything is clean and the chairs are tucked in. No heating, but he's never minded the cold very much.

"Risky wasn't it? Took me away under the eye of about half a dozen policemen. They're not that stupid contrary to popular belief. And Mrs Hudson will remember your face."

The cabbie only smiles. "No… this is a risk. Oh, I like this bit. You don't get it yet, do you?"

The man has pulled out a single bottle with a single pill. The poison is self-ministered, so nothing new to add.

_How? The fake gun?_ Plausible but no. This man is gleeful, he enjoys the game -

"I just have to do this... Weren't expecting that, were you?"

The man pulls out another bottle. Ah. The pieces connect and he smiles for the first time since he left Baker Street.

Brilliant.

* * *

Amy's in the police car with Lestrade. It's her first - no wait it isn't her first time in one, thanks to Mels. Lestrade is on the phone with Donovan. Her heart thumps heavily and her palms are sweaty. Her legs are shaking or maybe she's shaking them. She doesn't know. The laptop provides a pleasant source of heat in the cold car but she can't focus. She crosses her fingers and hopes, they aren't too late - that there won't be another 'serial suicide' on the front page of tomorrow's newspaper. Please.

She tries to cheer herself with the feeling that Sherlock likes himself too much to die.

"Left here please."

* * *

He points lazily to the two bottles in an attempt to forgo the long, over-dramatic pauses and skip over to the important part.

"One is poison, one isn't. Both bottles are of course identical. In every way."

Easy. Obvious.

The cabbie smiles, delighted, "You're brilliant. Proper genius- Now, that...is proper thinking. Just like you've written on your site."

He isn't used to praise or harsh fluorescent lights. He feels slightly uncomfortable under both but he stays still. This man's words of acceptance are a little sarcastic for his liking.

* * *

_"That...was brilliant."_

_"You're fantastic."_

_"How…?"_

* * *

He thinks briefly back to Amy Pond's childish frankness and ecstatic praises. The intensity and genuine awe -

"Between you and me, why can't people think? Really - don't it make you mad?" The cabbie asks him.

_All the time._

_Though the cabbie's words lack any form of sincerity, they collocate with that one scrap of self reflection that exists in him. Where the self reflector and the odd cynic lives, honest ruthlessness unmatched by any other person or entry of the lexicon -_

"Why can't people just think?"

_Yes._

_Why can't they?_

* * *

_"So this is how you do it. You observe. You look at the obvious. It's all there."_

_"Exactly."_

_"We must look really stupid to you."_

* * *

"Oh, I see..." he drawls out, not bothering to hide the boredom creeping is voice, "So you're a proper genius too."

"Don't look it, do I? Funny little man driving a cab," The cabbie shakes his head.

He doesn't respond.

_No one thought much of the lanky black haired boy. They didn't expect him to have a mean hook or to deduce that he knew they were having an affair behind their wife's back at the age of five._

"That's what they all thought. The last thing they did really."

He ignores the cabbie, "You know which bottle is which. But I don't."

"Of course. Wouldn't be a game if you knew. And guess what? You're the one who chooses. And I haven't told you the best bit yet."

"Let me 'guess'. Whichever bottle I choose, you take the other one. Elegant." He doesn't even attempt to feign interest as it slips from him like fried eggs on a breakfast plate.

The cabbie grins, "That's more like it Mr Holmes. Together we take our medicine. I won't even cheat. Your choice entirely."

The gamble.

He knows the thrill of it, the satisfaction of fulfillment, of winning.

But this.

It fascinates and vaguely disgusts him at the same time. This man gave those five victims, the ones that were unlucky, unknowing ones a choice. The ones that didn't know how to tell a real gun apart from a fake. Normal people. Ordinary people. Like Amy Pond who shared a cab with him on the way to the crime scene.

Who would have taken one back to 221B.

"This is what you did to the rest of them, you gave them a choice?"

"And now I'm giving you one."

_The choice to take your own life._

"You take your time. Get yourself together. Game of chance."

"Luck."

"Four people in a row? It's genius. I've outlived them all. I'll outlive you. I know how people think, just like you think you do. I know how people think I think. Stupid people - even you."

He ignores the meaningless jab and folds his hands in front of him, leaning towards the cabbie.

Time to play his own hand.

"You've killed four, five people. You've killed strangers - why?"

"Time to play Mr Holmes."

The man pushes one bottle nearer to him.

"I am," he ignores the bottle placed in front of him and steeples his fingers, leaning in closer. A shadow forms across the shortened space between them and he goes on, having turned the tables,"This is my turn. Outlive, your choice of words, rather interesting wouldn't you agree? Suggests you're a sick man, dying. But you didn't kill out of mere spite. The photograph you have of your children, you still love them and there isn't much you can do for them. Love. Now love is a vicious motivator - you kill people, it's to do with them, your children. What do you get out of it? Fame? Glory no - Then the last option. Money."

He draws back, and waits for the unmoving cabbie to confirm his deductions.

"You are good. Aren't you? Aneurism. Right in here." the cabbie taps the side of his head, "Any breath could be my last."

He lets the cabbie continue.

The confession. The final, optional stage of the case. Usually the heartfelt "I had to because..." explanations or excuses. Love, hate, money. One of the three.

"When I die they won't get much, my kids. Not a lot of money in driving cabs really."

"As opposed to serial killing?"

"You'd be surprised Mr Holmes."

He looks at the cabbie with a slight nod. Surprise me.

"I have a sponsor. For every life I take, money goes to my kids. Money like you said. The more I kill... the better off they'll be -"

It doesn't add up in his head and he throws a question.

"Who'd sponsor a serial killer?"

"Who'd be a fan of Sherlock Holmes?"

* * *

They're nearly there and Amy's bursting to get out the car.

_Sherlock… come on… Don't do anything stupid._

* * *

_Fan?_

"You're not the only one to enjoy a good murder. There are others like you, only so much more."

Confusion sweeps him again._ More than him. More than one person - What?_

"An organisation?"

"A name, that no one says."

_A name?_

"Now, enough chatter. Time to choose."

The bottles are of no interest to the detective. Not anymore. He's been steadily growing tired of it, but now with the appearance of an larger, shadowy force at work, he wants to leave.

He decides to resolve it the quick way, "What if I don't? If I don't take the chance and just walk out of here."

The cabbie pulls the fake gun from his side. "I'll shoot you. In the head."

He stands up as if he's just finished a business meeting with excellent results, smirking, "I know a real gun when I see one."

Then, he hears it.

_The siren of the police cars._

Lestrade, even being the best of Scotland Yard couldn't possibly have come at his own intuition. Which leaves only one candidate with drive and tenacity.

He ignores the fake gun pointed at him and walks over to the windows.

He turns to the cabbie with the broadened satisfactory smirk on his face, "Clever Amy Pond. I underestimated her."

* * *

The police car hasn't even stopped and Amy leaps out of it. The car park is almost empty and she sees the taxi standing out. She runs to it and wrenches it open. She searches around and sees it.

"The phone's here! Jennifer Wilson's!" She points to the cab and a couple of officers rush towards her.

Amy looks around._ Phone. Which means Sherlock's here. With the killer. _Some of the windows are lit in the buildings and she swivels around desperately.

_Which one? Where?_

* * *

"Well, this has been very interesting. I look forward to the court case."

Sherlock is about to leave when the cabbie calls from behind him.

"Just before you go, did you figure it out?"

_Walk out._

A voice in his mind tells him. It's too quiet though. Weak against the others.

"Of course."

"Well, which one, then? Which one would you have picked?"

Sherlock doesn't answer but stands still. _Resist it._ The same voice tells him again.

"Just so I know whether I could have beaten you."

_Don't._

"Come on! Play the game."

_A little boy of five almost drowned once, the eleven year old fell of the roof, and fourteen, fifteen, twenty one year olds taken to hospital - wrong chemicals swallowed, bit off more than he could chew at boxing, overdose -_

_He broke mummy's heart and angered his brother._

_'Why did you do it?'_

_They asked him._

_Pride? Curiosity? Boasting?_

Truthfully, he does not know.

Still.

* * *

Amy sprints across the hallway and looks for the switch. She running across floor, checking all the rooms, seeing if lights are on. But she might be too late, too slow. She needs to get Sherlock's attention if he's in this building.

_How?-_

* * *

_Inspection, comparison, test against the light…_

He hates the lights - they're too bright.

"So what do you think? Really... What do you think? Can you beat me? I bet you get bored, don't you? I know you do. A man like you. So clever. But what's the point of being clever if you can't prove it?"

Sherlock makes the final decision and picks up the one he's had his eye on. He's always trusted his decisions, his senses, deductive reasoning, ever since he knew how to perceive. He's always been able to trust himself.

"Oh! Interesting." The cabbie's voice is delighted, a bluff, double bluff - He has the detective back in the game.

He picks up the other one left by the detective, "Still the addict. Mr Holmes. But this...this is what you're really addicted to."

Sherlock unscrews the lid and the small pill falls onto his hand quietly.

"You'll do anything...anything at all… to stop being bored."

He knows he's right. He's always been, and always is.

* * *

Amy looks around, finds it then starts clawing at it. Nothing happens.

"Oh what's wrong with you!"

She starts punching it. Smashing seems like the best option. Something crunches. A second's pause then -

Ha!

Mission accomplished, she sprints up another flight of stairs and sees light pouring out of a slightly open door at the end of the door. She skids across the waxed floor, calling his name above the din.

"Sherlock!"

* * *

"You're not bored now, are you?"

He's about to put it into his mouth when a screaming sound blares to life.

_Fire alarm?_

* * *

She slips past the open door and sees him. Sherlock, in his flappy black coat and blue scarf. In his hand is a pill.

"Sherlock! Don't! You stupid idiot!"

He whips around and looks at her.

She's about to cross the room towards him when she hears the heart stopping and unmistakable sound, still loud and clear above the din- the sound of a gunshot ringing through the empty school.

She screams.

* * *

**E/N:** Dun dun dun!

This chapter was slightly experimental because I've actually pulled an insight into Sherlock's family history. Not heavily hinted but still flashes of it. It's my personal headcanon (which is based on what I've deduced from the books, fan theories I liked and seemed plausible and the take BBC's taken). That being said, Jeremy Brett's imagined history on Sherlock Holmes' childhood is pretty similar to my ACD!headcanon so I've borrowed elements from it as well.

I won't say anything directly, only show and imply, not too heavily either. Best left to imagination. But Sherlock POV - as close as you can get with Sherlock anyway. I think writing Sherlock in third person is best- first is too intimate or maybe my writing skills aren't up to the standards to write it:) Third person gives an insight - close enough with Sherlock's mind yet retaining some distance. I think no one really knows what goes on in his mind.

Second person may come up- I've written a lot of second person povs and experimented with it before. I actually wrote (and still am writing) a fic for Thor between Loki and Jane- Loki is in second person and Jane is in third person and it is and interesting contrast and produced the desired effect. So yeah I might employ second person pov, but later.

Amy is doing brainwork, clever girl! She's trying and using her resources with much input as she she can.

And yes, Sherlock's guessed how the pills work without asking. Like he did in the books. I thought he was a bit slow for Sherlock Holmes in reaching the answers in Study in Pink.

Next chapter, Amy disses, Sherlock is vicious and we meet Mycroft Poppins.

Review!;)


	9. Chapter 8:At the End of the Day

**A/N: **Hey I'm back again, pretty soon!

It's the final chapter of A Study in Pink and I will give all of you applause for sticking with this story despite my absence and blocks and follow/favouriting/reviewing it. And a pat on the back for myself for doing something that was only in my head. We reach the conclusion, but lets get on with it first. My rambles later -

* * *

**Chapter 8: At the End of the Day**

Two men.

Your target is the older one.

The sirens of the police car can be heard in the distance. By the time they arrive, you'll be gone. You take your place.

Sherlock Holmes is tall. Tall, thin and pale with dark hair. You let out a quick whistle. The typical tall, dark and handsome. The two are about to take the pills.

_Time to shoot._

You capture your target on the scope. You've done this more than you can count, no pressure -

_Fire alarm?_

You hesitate briefly and see that your confusion is shared by the two men in the building opposite. You pull yourself together and take your place again. No time to dawdle. Finger on the trigger. The satisfying shot rings through and your work is done. You check the last message you got from him and think about replying. Nah.

_Leave dear Sherlock alone, won't you? I still want to play a few more rounds -M-_

* * *

The shot rings clearly and Amy's heart stops. Time literally freezes. She's never heard a real gun in her life and it deafens her, chilling her to the bone. The shock is thrumming in her veins and her eyes widen because for a moment she thinks it hit her. But she feels nothing. She looks at Sherlock who is standing.

Thank god.

Sherlock suddenly darts to the window and peers out of it. Amy jolts out of her stupor and makes her way throughout the tables. Her heart stops again and she feels it to the very ends of her finger tips. A man is lying on the cold floor, glasses askew. His hat has dropped onto the floor and his eyes are open. Blood is seeping out of him. His breathing is shallow.

Blood.

She hasn't seen it in such a long time. So bright, gushing, red. She gasps inwardly. She's forgotten how much someone could bleed. The unlucky man who was shot. Then, the corner of her eye catches something small next to his hand. She crouches and picks it up. A tiny milky pill with fleck of pink in it.

Something clicks.

_'The murderer?'_

A swish of a coat announces Sherlock at her side. "Was I right?!"

"Sherlock what?"

Sherlock pushes her to the side. She trips but manages to hold herself together. He's shouting at the dying man. "Was I right? I was wasn't I?"

He's holding the same pill she picked up and waving it in front of the man. She doesn't get what the hell is going on. What's right? Sherlock's voice is urgent, confident - no. There's an edge to it and her heart tells her it's not just erratic. It's almost desperate, wanting the confirmation that he's right.

"Sherlock -"

He seems not to have heard her and throws the little pill at the whimpering man. The thing hits the old man's face and it seems so perverse.

"Who is it?" Sherlock's voice changes as if he's just realised something else. "Your sponsor, the one who told me about you, my fan - Who is it? I want a name!" He's frantic again, firm and threatening. The man on the floor does not say anything, only moaning as life seeps out of him. Amy cringes the alarming amount of blood on the floor that's already pooled, edging towards her shoes.

"You're dying, there's still life in you. Which means…"

Sherlock raises a foot and stamps exactly where the bullet has driven itself into the old man. The man cries out in pain and Sherlock's is almost livid -

"A name!"

His voice is still loud even with the fire alarm. With no response, Sherlock twists his foot, driving the bullet deeper. Amy cries out with the old man, horrified -

"Give me a wretched name!"

Amy has a sudden flash of her biology class. The boy who was her partner, sniggering as he cut up the anesthetized frog -

"MORIARTY!"/"Sherlock!"

Sherlock whips around and looks at her as if he's seen her in his life for the first time. Amy doesn't know what her expression is like now.

Scared? Angry? Terrified? Upset? Disgusted?

She doesn't even know how she feels. Her heart is caught in her throat, clogging it up. Sherlock pulls his foot away and the two of them look down and see that the man is dead.

She feels cold and clammy. Numb. A nauseating feeling clogs up all the way to her chest and she wants to run out, hide, let it all out.

"He's the murderer."

She looks up and sees Sherlock addressing her.

So? She guessed that much. The man who killed five people. Six, if Sherlock had - she shudders slightly. Her legs are trembling and she knows it isn't the cold. She swallows the lump in her throat that hurts. There's no point as another lumps forms, bigger and she isn't sure she can speak. She counts to three and tries to speak; she succeeds but the sounds are strained and tight like guitar strings pulled back and tuned to a flat piano.

"You didn't have to do that though. He was dying anyway. Why did you do it?"

Sherlock doesn't answer but just stands, breathing slightly heavily.

He is expressionless, only a tiny crease of a brow as if he has the answer to the question he doesn't know yet.

_What was it the old man shouted before he died?_

The fire alarm fades away abruptly and she stands there, looking at him.

He is so different to the man that was shouting. So still and quiet, like a ghost. Amy reaches out tentatively and her cold fingers settle on the scratch wool of his coat. Her fingers are numb and she can't feel anything but grips the stiff coat, much like its owner with a little tug. Sherlock looks down and back at her face, strangely calm. The man demanding a name, who was enraged moments ago, is no longer there. Instead, she catches the ghost of disbelief in his face. In the bright light that draws out too many shadows and highlights the already prominent bones in his face, he looks somewhat gaunt and faraway.

Almost…?

She has a sudden urge to give him a hug, to wrap he arms around him and tell him it's okay. The sick feeling of shock and the grip on her heart is raging a war inside her; she has enough consciousness and conscience to feel horrified at his actions - _the cabbie killed people, he's a serial killer, she knows. But Sherlock didn't have to, he shouldn't have done something so inhumane -_

Then the lump in her heart bobs a little as the tremors of her shock shake her gently, whispering from another part of her, reminding her that she's glad to see him all right, fine - _You're alive, that's what matters._

She's almost ready to close the space between them, for both of their sakes - but they don't know each other well that well and first acquaintances don't hug each other.

'_How many first acquaintances go around London solving murder cases?'_

The snarky voice in her head that sounds suspiciously like her nineteen year old self reminds her but she ignores it.

She might have hugged anyone.

Anyone but Sherlock.

He's one of those people who don't seem to like physical contact and gives off very clear signals of not used to being touched. The sight she's just seen replays in images and shouting in her head. The remnants of the gunshot, her first one and the scene that happened moments before shocks her all over again and she won't think it'll ever leave her head. She's shaking but the definite throb of her heart wins over the horror and her head as the maddening ache she's held for the last half an hour is finally relieved at the sight of just seeing him alive.

The calm expression on it.

So instead, Amy grips the sleeve of his coat in a reassuring manner. Reassuring him and herself. It's a poor substitute for actual contact, but it's the best she can do. She doesn't give him a hug and spills out her relief in a different manner. Sherlock looks at her fingers gripping tightly onto the rough material and at her. She swallows a little and meets his gaze properly. Her heart is still hammering from the over-pumped adrenaline but she manages to keep her voice steady. She doesn't think about what he's done, what's just happened; she won't think about that now. She'll think about it later, perhaps tomorrow.

"It's okay. I'm glad you're alive."

* * *

Tonight is really really cold.

She has tights on but it's still really really cold. She wraps her arms tightly around herself and lets out a clenched scream along the lines of 'It's bloody freezing!'

She spies Sherlock near the ambulance, talking to Lestrade. The orange blanket around him is so bizarre in the shades of brown and black of the night. It suits him. The thought of it brings a smile to her face. She looks up with a grin and sees Sherlock looking at her across the car park. She looks around, and sees all the police officers and paramedics are busy with their own business. She slips through the flimsy police line thingy and skips over to Lestrade.

"Everything all right?" Amy asks. Sherlock gives her a small nod.

"Yes. You all right Amy?" Lestrade asks.

"Yeah. I'm fine." she answers with a slight shrug.

"You should thank Amy, Sherlock. She saved the day. She's the one that figured out where you went."

Lestrade claps Sherlock on the back and gives her a small smile. He heads off before Sherlock has time to retort and frankly that just annoys Sherlock even more. The two of them stand in awkward... well not silence, since the air is buzzing with questions and shouted orders, sirens and things but neither of them are speaking. Just looking somewhere else and not at each other.

_Oh this is really… awkward…_

_S_he focuses her gaze on the oxygen mask behind Sherlock and is suddenly reminded of all the embarrassing moments in her life.

_It takes four seconds for silence to turn awkward between strangers._

A random fact Rory told her once.

_Are they strangers? _She asks herself.

Definitely more than four seconds. She clears her throat and decides to speak first since Sherlock hardly ever makes the first move. Like getting the phone for instance.

* * *

"You okay?" she asks, worry etched on her face.

The concern is so visible it's hard for him to not notice. It's different to his brother's, who with his patronising tone, constantly tries to hammer into his head that he is 'concerned'. It would have been persuasive had Mycroft not worn an annoying frown which brings out an urge for him to iron it, and smooth the creases out.

Amy's however, is different. He isn't used to such truthfulness and it makes him uncomfortable.

"Yes I'm fine." He brushes her concern off and she frowns slightly, adding confusion to the concern.

"Really? You almost died -"

"Well I didn't."

He cuts her off abruptly and realises his words have come out more brashly than he intended. Not polite, considering her efforts to break the silence as it threatened to turn into uncomfortable awkwardness for her.

It takes four seconds for the transition of silence to awkwardness between strangers.

Four point five seconds, she's made her move. The frown on her forehead indicates his short remark was not good and he stops to recollect himself for a moment. He makes an effort not to sound to blunt. He doesn't mean to upset this girl, especially with what she's been through. Crimes scenes and murderers are everyday when there's an interesting case for him... and perhaps not so much for a nurse from a tiny English village.

"People die all the time. You should know, of all people."

She doesn't say anything at his words but crosses her arms tightly (defensive body language) and studies him closely. Her long vivid locks tumble down her face, framing it. He ducks from her scrutiny, not looking away but avoiding it, waiting for her conclusion. As he waits, his gaze flickers to the waves in her hair and wonders what happened to her tightly pinned up bun.

"You're very calm about all this aren't you?"

Her conclusion is stating the obvious and despite the evident question mark at the end of her sentence, it isn't a question. A statement; an observation she's reached by the day she's spent with him. A careful and slow deduction of her own, one she's been spinning ever since she stepped into the lab this afternoon. This afternoon, he thinks when the only thing on her mind was probably looking for a flatmate, not landing slap bang in the middle of a hunt for a serial killer.

She's presenting what she thinks of him, of today in her own way.

Everything compressed into that question mark at the end.

Question or not, every sentence with that particular punctuation demands an answer. He tries to shake it off, leave her to her own thoughts but she's waiting for an answer. Experience tells him she won't back down. He observes her, trying to decide how to satisfy her curiosity and lets his mind unravel today's timeline in panorama: _Amy Pond stumbling into his life as she followed Rory Williams into the lab, passing a complete stranger her phone, smiling, wondering, the frank shock at his deductions, her cries of applause, crime scene, raised eyebrows, unconsciously shifting accent, wit and spark, shocking red hair, persistence, so many questions, unconscious habit of fiddling with her fingers, genuine glee and admiration shining in her eyes as he made his deductions like a child given sweets, her stubbornness -_

_BANG._

She is disbelieving of the fact that he is fine, despite what he tells her.

Sharp, Amy Pond.

Perhaps it's her training kicking in. Instinct, not observation.

She doesn't know of his slightly sweating palms. Body betrays the mind, even when it should be used to it by now. With all the experience, he could never quite control the survival instinct that sprung up at the sound of a gunshot. Tonight it was a bit more violent than usual and that fact tugs at him. For a moment when he saw her bursting into the room then heard the gunshot that followed and the scream -

No.

Then the glimpse he saw in her eyes.

It was that look; the particular stubbornness that caught him. Even when screaming she never lost the determination she came rushing in with. He was amused when she turned up at Baker Street again, the tenacity was interesting, even though he knew she'd come. The overwhelming ripple of awe and wonder in her eyes was blatantly obvious. Though truthfully, the thing that sparked his interest was her simple appreciation that appealed to his vanity and the little self-deprecation that was still left in him. Then she managed to actually impress him by finding out where he'd disappeared to.

Lestrade, for once was right.

"_Sherlock!"_

The empty horror as she called out his name as he demanded the name of his so called 'fan' out of the dying cabbie still lingers. It's all he remembers of the moment.

Yet, she's here in front of him. Despite all that she's witnessed, she's able to hold herself together and even finds time to bring humour out of the situation with her childish teasing and sarcasm. His train of thought stops there and he focuses his gaze back to her and sees that she is still watching him, eyes in deep thought.

"Shouldn't I be?" he answers finally. He doesn't give her the answer, the one she wants anyway. It's too early for that.

"Most people aren't," she shoots back with ease as if she's expected such a reply.

"I'm not most people."

"No."

She stops.

"You're not."

There's a strange edge to those last two words that balance off her odd smile. Then her expression changes to a bright grin and she points a finger at him.

"But you've got a blanket!"

He looks down at the blanket he shook off only minutes ago. "Why do they keep putting this blanket on me?"

"It's for shock."

She's positively giddy now.

"I'm not in shock. I'm fine." He brushes the blanket off irritably. Amy cackles and he looks at her, taken back at the gleeful sound issuing from her throat. An oxymoron in a murder scene.

"Oh god. I can't laugh in a crime scene." She manages to gasp out. He waits for her to recover. The last of her merry giggles die out and she sniffs, "I mean, you're like a grumpy five year old! Sherlock don't like blanket -"

That sets her off again and he looks at her incredulously. The haunted face of the girl who screamed his name above the fire alarm is completely gone and all he can do is stare at the giggling twenty four year old.

"Don't be like that! Who's Mr Grumpy face today? Besides it's okay to be in shock - normal." she pouts. "If you don't want that, give it to me. I'm freezing."

He gladly does so and she eagerly accepts the giant orange lump.

* * *

Normal. Humph. Amy knows from the events Sherlock Holmes is anything but.

She sits on the back of the ambulance and glances around at the scene before her. Sherlock takes his place next to her, in deep thought. The noise around is still clear, still there but it becomes a blur as it blends in with the rest of everything and itself.

The questioning, orders buzzing and crackling through the radio, paramedics running around, Lestrade, the distant sound a screaming car alarm -

Amy's swept away by everything so loud, so busy, so chaotic.

Then it becomes strangely peaceful.

And in the eye of the storm two figures sit side by side on the back of an ambulance wordlessly. They do not look at each other but the expression on their faces mirror each other. The eyes that flicker on the scene before them; one pair with interest, one pair observing with the slightly narrowed brow.

To her it's been what she'd call "a hell of a day" or just plain hell because that's what it was.

She still feels the excitement coursing through her and the tremble in her knees and hands. The good sort.

It's strange: just over two weeks ago she was a mopey bed ridden ex-nurse.

A few days ago she was aimlessly swimming around the sea that was London.

Ironic that that the break she chose to have landed her in the scene of the serial murders but feeling better than she's been in a long time. All because she followed a man she's known for what - not even twelve hours into his strange mind-blowing world of Scotland Yard, swishy coats, crazily accurate deductions and a hell lot of running. She knows that this isn't quite the right thing that someone should get perked up about and for a moment she worries about her own mental health. Perhaps the long times she spent in bed in Leadworth finally tipped her over the edge. But as an automatic grin spreads across her face, it was just... so brilliant - Completely nuts but just spellbinding. She never really got the meaning of the word until today. She only thought 'spellbinding' events happened in Harry Potter or Narnia, but never to little Amy Pond from boring Leadworth. She's in her world, the real world but there are people who live in adventure stories and thrillers like Sherlock.

_Will everyday be like this?_

She takes a sneak look at Sherlock and ponders on the decision of staying. Should she?

Why not? is the first thing that crops up in her mind - she's found the flat share she was looking for, landlady is lovely, so is flat and potential flatmate?... Maybe not the most normal person she's met but certainly the most brilliant. Okay he keeps eyeballs in the microwave (Sergeant Donovan's horrified scream rings in her head) and is painstakingly rude at times (reminds her of someone but she can't think who) acts like a supreme lord and a petulant five year old. Is insensitive but knows when he's stepped the line too much - perhaps just socially awkward?

All the above starts leaning towards _against_ sharing flat along with factors like he's a strange man, price of flat maybe too much for her considering the location of 221B -

That's her head talking.

She can feel him throwing her quick glances and guesses that he already knows what she's thinking about. He's like that. She knows he won't ask her about her decision - too proud for that.

Should she stay?

Her mind wonders off to the hypothetical future where she's sitting on the sofa of Baker Street watching telly or something and Sherlock will come barging in with a case and she'll automatically tune out from what she was doing and listen as he prattles on about the details. Listening to him, fascinated as if he were telling her a fairytale. She won't be able to resist throwing in a sarcastic comment when he scoffs at her for not seeing the "obvious".

She can almost hear him saying "Coming?"

She knows she won't be able to refuse and she'll be out of the sofa by two seconds, down the stairs in five and burst out the door like a shooting star in -

"Are you all right?"

She looks up and sees that Sherlock's looking at her hands on her lap that still sweat and tremble a little. The sound of the gunshot and the freezing terror of the moment will be forever in her mind.

"Yeah. Just adrenaline. Don't know why -"

"You have just seen a man shot"

He's frowning but maybe that's his way of showing concern. She takes a deep breath and answers surprisingly calmly, "I've seen people die before like you said and maybe not shot but... I can take it. And he wasn't a very nice man." She speaks really fast like she does when she's trying to spit something out and laughs it off. Sherlock does as well, if a little.

"Bloody awful cabbie. Should have seen the route he took us."

They both crack grins at his casual quip and she feels the weight on her chest release its grip on her a little. It feels good to laugh as she lets out the first genuine sound of relief that gives her heart the permission to calm down.

"Is everyday like this?"

Sherlock turns his head and looks at her.

"Like what?"

She splutters a little and points to the happenings before them.

"Police, crime scenes, running - Anderson," she says as she spots Anderson stuttering around in his blue uniform. Sherlock makes a disgusted face.

"Police, murders: sometimes. Running: frequently and Anderson preferably never but unfortunately often."

Amy snorts and shakes her head. He knows what she's asking, but purposefully decides to take the literal option.

"Dangerous?"

"Interesting." he corrects her.

"The two mean the same thing on your street though."

"Problem?" he asks.

She asks the question to herself. Problem Amy?

She looks his expression; it has a streak of half finished questions and a dare that seems to ask 'What are you going to do Amelia Pond?'

It seems to know her answer already.

So does she.

"No. None at all. At least not yet."

The silence elapses again between them but she doesn't mind. Even in the chaos and the aloofness that Sherlock emits like dry ice emits the white smoky stuff she feels comfortable. She doesn't really know why. Perhaps it's the life-threatening experiences they've shared in an amazingly short space of time, having gone through a roller-coaster of possible emotions, intense and compressed within the small intervals. Otherwise, it doesn't really make sense, as the little interaction they've had has been his superhuman deducting capabilities and her bursts of awe. Or creative insults that despite the blunt obnoxiousness are ones she's like to use if anyone ever annoys her. Strangely though, she feels comfortable with him. Not Rory comfortable. Rory's the favourite pair of shoes comfortable and Sherlock is… new heels that caused so many blisters but one day will hopefully stop causing so many type… of comfortable. If that makes any sense. She's always thought shoes were great analogies for personal relationships.

And she did kind of -

"You know... Sergeant Donovan was explaining the pills and can I just say that you are a complete… moron." Amy says the thing that's been bugging her ever since she first heard about how the murderer killed his victims.

"What?"

Sherlock has the same expression as when she told him back at the flat that his site was amusing. Except a lot more outraged and annoyed. The transition of facial expressions is so quick and very genuine that it's almost comical. Pity, Sherlock would have made a fantastic actor. Imagine him trying to tackle the fangirls.

Tah.

"You were going to take that stupid pill won't you?"

"Course I wasn't. Biding my time - Knew you'd come -"

"You were going to take that pill. Just to prove you're clever," shhe cuts him off and enjoys the look he's giving her at the taste of his own medicine. Oh he better get used to it.

"Why would I do that?" he frowns and for a fraction of a second something akin to confusion flashes on the shadows of his face. Then it flickers back to its normal arrogance.

"You risk your life to prove how clever you are. And each time you do it it just proves it even more. And most of all…"

She gives two seconds for the dramatic effect. Simply because she can. And she's enjoying this way too much.

"Because you're an idiot. Didn't I say?"

The look on his face is priceless and makes her night. Amusement, agreement and a subtle mix of everything. She smiles in the light of her small victory and after a momentary pause he smiles back in understanding. Touche. One point to Miss Pond, score, one all.

They have their own in-sayings now.

If everyday ends like this she might be able to put up with his whirlwind bursts and trademark oh-I-know-everything smirks.

"Oh and Sherlock, did you - Never mind." Amy tries to ask the other question that popped into her head as soon as Sergeant Donovan explained the situation to her but instead decides to save it for later.

"Sorry?"

"Nothing."

She'll save it for later.

"Hungry?" Sherlock asks.

And suddenly she's aware of the hollowness that isn't shock but an empty stomach.

"Starving."

She stands up and Sherlock gives her a look of 'Why are you wearing that disgusting blanket?'

"Shock blanket. I'm in shock you see. It's warm, I like it. They've got loads here. They won't miss this."

"Shameless pilfering."

"Oi! I'm not the one with one too many DI badges."

Sherlock snorts a little and she waggles her eyebrows.

"You were saying?" she says with the coyness that would make Lizzie Bennet proud.

With her garnish shock blanket around her Amy slips out of the crime scene relatively inconspicuously alongside Sherlock. They give a nod to Sergeant Donovan and Lestrade on their way. They walk side by side, the distance between them shortened considerably since their first acquaintance in Baker street. Much closer but the gap still remains left to be closed. The cautious and lingering strains in that happen in the process of warming up slowly. Amy isn't scared off as Rory told her but she is still awestruck. And perhaps a little bit nervous. He is unpredictable and brilliant, mad, a man of fire and spectacular sparks, adrenaline and churning knowledge. He's like an ice sculpture; magnificent and captivating. Still, she doesn't know quite what to do. She's feeling her way and figuring him out. Not with loose thread, wedding rings and chipped nail polish as he does, processing them with cold and straightforward logic. No, she does it in her own way with quiet observance, perseverance and imagining. With time she'll get to know him little by little and dig her place in his life. She's hesitant, as with all the risks she's taken but you can't have trust without a little risk.

A leap of faith.

She catches a couple back from late night grocery shopping trying to see if they can figure out what exactly happened while they were gone. The way they stand on their tiptoes, craning their necks to get a better look would have been exactly what she would have done right up till yesterday.

"End of Baker street there's a good Chinese. Stays open till two. You can always tell a good Chinese by the bottom third of the door handle." Sherlock speaks suddenly and she gives him a 'are you serious' eyebrow.

"I know the corner of your left eyelid got torn."

"You can see the stitches?" Amy gawps, "Still a lucky guess."

"Four years old."

"Guess!"

"I never guess."

"Yeah you deduce. Not going to ask how you did it. Since you want me to"

Sherlock goes on about door handles, delivery times and something about frying pans. She zooms out and it becomes background noise. Her eyes flicker around the dark street in interest. It's so quiet to how it was an hour ago. Nothing but -

"Sherlock -"

He's not listening, wrapped up with the quality of Chinese food. Her feet have come to a stop and she reaches out and tugs Sherlock's arm quite forcefully.

"Sherlock. It's the man I talked about earlier. Your archenemy."

Bond villain voice is only a few metres away with his suave car and the girl named Anthea still on her phone. He is looking at them in a relaxed manner, swinging his umbrella.

"I know exactly who that is." Sherlock's voice changes into one of determination and was that… irritation? He strides over as if to fight and Amy runs after.

"So… Another case cracked. How very public-spirited. Though that's never really your motivation is it?"

The man looks up in time and doesn't seem the least bit fazed at annoyed Sherlock.

"What are you doing here?" Sherlock practically spits out the words, slick with disgust and Amy listens, as if watching a ping pong match.

"As ever, I'm concerned about you."

"Yes, I've been hearing about your 'concern'."

"Always so aggressive. Hasn't it ever occurs to that mind of yours that you and I belong on the same side?

"Oddly enough - no."

Amy attempts to say something but she can't get a word in. _Same side?_

"We have more in common than you'd like to believe. This petty feud between us is simply childish. People will suffer… And you know how it always upset Mummy.

Okay. That was not what she expected at…all. Plot twist. Major big one. The fact that Sherlock Holmes of all people calls his mother... _Mummy?_

"_I_ upset her? Me? It wasn't _me_ that upset her, Mycroft."

Okay Bond villain voice is called Mycroft. Sherlock is outraged and suddenly it all makes sense, why he looks so _childish -_

"He's your _brother_? Your self-proclaimed worst enemy is your _own brother_? What are you two, seven? Or Thor and Loki?" She blurts out before she can stop herself.

The two brothers look at her in... what she cannot describe. Something like_ 'who are you?' _and_ 'what the heck did you say'_. They don't look anything alike at all yet they do and she thinks how could she have missed the family ties…

_Arrogance. No explanation whatsoever of how they do crazy things. Complete disrespect for privacy -_

"Nothing, ignore the last part. The pair of you have obviously never read a Marvel comic book."

Or spent summers reading comics with Jeff and Rory. No Amy, they look more like they'd read Plato and Shakespeare.

"This is my brother, Mycroft. Putting on weight again?" Sherlock adds.

_Put on weight?_

"Losing it, in fact." Mycroft replies in mock pleasance.

"So he's not…" Amy starts.

"Not what?" Sherlock asks.

"Criminal mastermind. Evil overlord. Bond villain?"

"Close enough." Sherlock answers.

"For goodness' sake -" Mycroft rolls his eyes in an oh-here-we-go-again manner, "I occupy a minor position in the British government."

Sherlock goes on viciously, more to Mycroft then Amy, "He _is _the British government, when he's not too busy being the British secret service or the CIA on a freelance basis -"

Oh that explains it. Considering Sherlock's definition of interest, she has no trouble believing the scale of his brother's power.

"Your brother's very apt at controlling security cameras." she comments.

"Is that what he did?" Sherlock's voice is dripping with contempt, "Boring. Though it's an improvement from the cash machine. Did he try the phone box?"

"Uh… Yeah."

Amy doesn't ask how he knows. Sherlock smirks, "Good evening, Mycroft. Try not to start a war before I get home, you know what it does for the traffic."

He walks off, without even looking back. Amy decides to follow, but turns around with a question, "So, when you say you're an interested party, you really are interested... for his well being?"

"Yes, of course." Mycroft answers but he's watching Sherlock going off.

"It really is a childish... feud? Not..."

"He's always been so resentful. Never forgets about it either. You can imagine the Christmas dinners Miss Pond."

She's had her fair share of perverseness at Christmas to Aunt Sharon's partners. But these two are the cream of the crop. She imagines the vicious snarking all the way across the table and shivers.

"Oh yeah.. Oh no."

Mycroft (Another peculiar name. She wonders very much what their parents are like.) doesn't answer and she decides to leave it off there.

"Um... next time just.. Ask. Don't.."

She leaves with a final note of complaint that she doubts very much it will be taken note of and jogs off to Sherlock who is not that far off.

"So, dim sum. Mmm!" she jumps in brightly, the long wad of orange she is.

"I can always predict the fortune cookies."

Now that's just showing off.

"No, you can't."

"Almost can."

"_Almost_."

She nudges him with her elbow than looks to her right. And he's… smiling?

"What are you smiling about?"

"Moriarty."

"The name that the cabbie said before he - Who is it?"

"I've absolutely no idea."

Sherlock shakes his head still grinning and she leaves him. If it's important, he'll probably say it again later. Because he can't resist.

"Oh shoot -"

"Rory?"

"Yeah, I have to text him. He's probably going to call the police if I don't. Seriously he's like my brother."

* * *

Marina, as she's currently calling herself terminates the last of the security files from Oxford Street. She activates cameras six to eleven again and asks Mr Holmes as he seems to be done.

"Sir, shall we go?"

"Interesting, Miss Pond. She could be the making of my brother... or make him worse than ever. If that is possible at this rate. Either way, we'd better upgrade their surveillance status. Grade three active."

Cameras thirteen to seventeen active.

"Sorry, sir - whose status?"

"Sherlock Holmes, and Amy Pond."

* * *

**E/N:**So finally the duo have met the conclusion to their crazy day. And off for a nice spot of chinese. Yum. I'm actually hungry now as I write this.

The next ep. will be coming up, but I have to finish tweaking with some parts a bit. It's going to take a bit so in the mean time I'll post bits and fragments of interludes to keep my lovely readers entertained. The question Amy was going to ask will crop up during the interludes. It's something I wondered as I watched the episodes and I think some of you might have too. Involves the game theory. That's all I'm going to say.

Thank you so much for the lovely reviews, it really perked me up and fired me to finish up this chapter quicker than I expected. I'm so happy. I hit the 10 review mark! Squee~! I'm sorry for the slow updates, bear with me for the end of this month and I'll be quite free to do actual updates instead of squeezing and writing when I can find spare time in my crazy schedule:) I'll probably have time to beta and correct the earlier chapters as well. They are total messes. Gah. I'm ashamed.

I thought Amy's conflict was necessary. She's a young girl and going off to live with a strange man is a big leap. Not to mention that he isn't quite normal. I thought her seeing him demand the 'fan's' name out of the cabbie was a big emotional influence on her future views of Sherlock. She's seen his ups and downs all in a matter of hours. She's seen him at his best, his casual, his rudeness and his ruthlessness. Rocky start but somehow firm. Not an instant I'm definitely staying with you-BOOM decision but a more, okay I'm unnerved and awestruck and despite that prick from my reasonable side I'm going to take this chance type decision.

So, did you like the conclusion? Satisfied? Please tell me in your reviews sweeties!


	10. Interlude:The Other Solution

**A/N: **Okay first of the interludes and carries on directly from the last chapter. Well almost.

* * *

**Interlude: The Other Solution**

Sherlock's right (when isn't he?) – the food is excellent.

Amy gulps down another mouthful of noodles and starts on the spring rolls. Oh yes. She knows from past experience that she'll get a stomach ache at the speed she's finishing the dishes but oh – what the hell. She gives a glance at Sherlock who is eyeing her with – what she cannot tell. With him it's so confusing to tell apart the expressions. He has such a good poker face. Still, he's looking at her with faint amusement and is that... disgust?

"What?" Amy says through a mouthful of noodles.

"Nothing." Sherlock replies back and looks out the window. She frowns and decides to ignore him. Who cares if he's never seen a girl eat before. She looks around and sees that there are two other tables occupied. One by a lone woman and the other by two people, presumably a couple -

"They're not."

"Sorry?"

She looks back at Sherlock and he's still looking out the window, sipping on a cup.

"They're not a couple," he states again.

"Who?"

The words slips from her lips in surprise as she jumps at Sherlock's voice; the very apparent indicator that he's been watching her the whole time. Sherlock turns to give a quick glance to the man and woman three tables from them and back at her, "Out of the three occupants in this restaurant, the woman sitting alone in the corner, waiting for her superior is a person short of being a 'couple', which leaves us and the two people currently employing the other table. I'm sure that you understand that we do not qualify as a couple in the sense of the word you're thinking of this moment, so obivously it's the occupants of the table three tables down."

He could have said 'The other two you've been staring at' but that's just his way, pointing things out for her. Perhaps he;s just bored from watching her eat. Besides, she's going to ask him how he knew - and here they go again. Deductions. It's oddly fun and thrilling

"How -"

Of course she won't get to finish her sentence before he starts off with stating the, or rather_ his_ 'obvious'.

"Body language tells that they're close. They've known each other for a while and are comfortable enough around the other person. So far your presumption of them being a couple seems likely. They're close, but not close enough – the intimacy between the gestures, the physical contact suggests a more platonic than romantic relationship. Well, for one person."

"One person?"

"The woman. For her their relationship is - what's the term? Just friends?"

Amy nods in confirmation and Sherlock goes on, "The man says otherwise -"

"You mean he fancies her?"

"Yes. Obviously. The woman has no problem making eye contact whereas the man isn't quite meeting it."

"He could have lost her money," she pipes in, swallowing another helping of noodles. Sherlock makes a sound of 'good point but no'.

"Possible but his body language is contradicting itself. He's drawing away from her gaze because he's noticing it in the context of the opposite sex. Instead he's focusing his gaze on other parts of the woman's face, nose and lips."

"He doesn't like the colour of her lipstick?" Amy says, thinking back to Molly this afternoon and takes a bite of sweet and sour pork. She decides she likes it.

"He keeps taking a drink - the water bottle on their table is almost empty – he's finished two thirds of it himself. He's gotten up twice to go to the toilet. Keeps straightening his tie."

"Nervous."

"If they'd just met. But they haven't. Despite his wish to avoid direct gaze he's giving her his full attention. He keeps mimicking her gestures, most likely unconsciously. Showing signs of familiarity is a signal for attraction. He keeps making excuses to touch the woman. Hand on her shoulder before he went to the bathroom, fingers brushing her arm now, leaning close -"

"Yup okay, got it. So not a couple but one fancies the other. Do you think they'll get together?"

"No."

"You're such a pessimist."

"Look at her finger."

Amy squints and looks at the woman's hand on the table. Nothing. Then she turns her gaze to the other one wrapped around the cup and-

"Oh. That's just… tragic."

Sherlock says something but she can't hear and the two of them continue to stare at the table, its occupants, oblivious to her look of sympathy and his of disinterest.

* * *

"Sherlock?"

No answer.

"Sherlock?"

No answer.

"Sherlock Holmes, hello? Aren't you going to eat?"

"Eating slows me down."

"Oh rubbish. You've solved a case and you won't be solving anymore if you don't eat anything."

She pushes the bowl of noodles and the plate of fried rice towards him and sticks out the spoon and chopsticks in front of his face, waving it around like a rattle. She feels that this won't be the last time she has to force him to eat.

Among other things.

* * *

Amy wonders how many times a week Sherlock eats a proper meal. He's had a couple of mouthfuls whilst she practically licked a few plates clean. It's like watching a bird nibble at a couple of crumbs then fly off. She has a sudden image of tiny Sherlock running around beneath the table while his mother or even his brother chasing him, trying to get him to eat. She sniggers at the thought and chokes a bit, coughing as she turns red.

Oh good. Desserts.

* * *

Dessert always solves everything.

After a few bites of tiny pudding things she doesn't know the name of and something like mango slush she actually feels quite happy. The tremors from the hyper doses of adrenaline have gone away completely and she feels safe, in this warm corner of a nice restaurant.

She and Sherlock have actually engaged in a comfortable silence that is littered with the occasional small talk. As small-talkie as Sherlock can get. He may be brilliant, but not the best conversationalist. Maybe he's always like this?

She's currently locked in an unspoken battle with Sherlock in who eats the tiny pudding things more. It's their third plate but to be fair she gobbled down nearly all of the first plate and half of the second. It wasn't until she pushed some towards Sherlock that he joined her in the silent finger battle to finish off the plate.

On the verge of a fourth plate, Amy leans back and observes him. He looks nicer in this light than he did back at the cab or the harsh lights at the school. Much better than when he was sitting on the back of the ambulance with the police lights projected onto his pale face.

Now he looks softer and a bit more relaxed. He did solve the case so fair enough.

Oh yeah. Case.

She sits up and reaches out for another bite of the pudding thing when she sees there aren't any. Oh shoot.

"Sherlock," she says.

He pulls out of his whatever he was thinking of and meets her gaze.

"Question?"

"Um yeah actually. You know when Sergeant Donovan told me about the pills I had an idea and - What would you have done if both the pills had been poisoned? Or did you consider the fact that both of them might have poisoned? I mean, like -"

She elaborates, trying to string up what she means with the example in her head.

"Have you seen the Princess Bride?"

Sherlock frowns. Blank face, more confusion, less recognition. Oh no.

"The Princess Bride? It's originally a book but there's a movie. Anyway, um... There's a scene where Westley, he's the hero of the story, confronts Vizzini, I think his name was. He kidnapped Buttercup, a princess. Vizzini puts forward two goblets, one with wine, one with poison. Apparently."

So Amy Pond sits up and pulls her chair in as she animatedly explains her favourite book of all time to a trying not to look as if he is, but is actually fascinated Sherlock Holmes.

"So they make the choice and while Westley's back is turned, Vizzini swaps the goblets and both drink. Then Vizzini gloats over how he won and drops dead. Later, Westley rescues Buttercup, and she says it's a relief that Westley's cup was the one that was poisoned all along. Then Westley says no both were poisoned except -"

"That he'd built up an immunity to the poison." Sherlock finishes for her quietly.

"Yup. Or am I over thinking it? You know so... What about you? What would you have done?"

It's just a silly notion of her's but she's interested. In what someone like Sherlock might have done.

"Sherlock?"

She searches Sherlock's face which has quickly switched to one in deep thought, and leaves him to contemplate.

Is he contemplating? Perhaps, perhaps not. She knows better from her experience through tonight that with his thinking face on he won't talk until he feels the need too.

Oh well, ask him later.

In the mean time, she's going to get more of those round sweet pudding things. She better get the name down.

"I'm going to get some more… stuff."

She stands up and moves between the tables, and passes the table on the far corner with lone woman still there, on her mobile phone and a cup of green tea in front of -

Amy almost trips but manages to grab on to a chair. She rubs her shin in pain.

"You all right?"

She looks down in pain and sees the woman, smiling at her underneath the beret.

"Yeah just. My clumsiness -"

"Oh no, I'm sorry. My case -"

Amy looks down and sees a black case, some sort of instrument? The woman puts her phone down and moves the case to underneath the table.

"Sorry."

"No it's okay. Sorry I knocked it over."

With a final apology, Amy dashes to the counter and smiles for another plate of goodies. As she's waiting, she glances around the restaurant. She can see Sherlock still on his phone and the woman with the beret on her's.

Funny, Amy wonders what kind of instrument she plays.

* * *

_She's pretty. Nice legs, too. He's got a taste in girls. I thought you said he wasn't interested. -C-_

_You can have her. -M-_

_That's a promise? -C-_

_After my turn. I want to see Sherlock running around with his new pet first. Adorable. -M-_

_What've you got this time? -C-_

_Just a little game. -M-_

* * *

**E/N:** Anyone seen The Princess Bride? The scene Amy mentions is a famous scene and the question Amy asks is the one I had in my head while watching SiP. With the cabbie, dying of poison or anuerism, doesn it really matter? I'm kind of surprised that Sherlock didn't think of it. It also has to do with the game theory where if the rules can be changed it can be used to the advantage of one player. Bluff bluff bluff. It's an interesting possibility.

Heehee last bit. A shadow has been cast in Sherlock and Amy's lives and crawling into them. And they don't even know it.

Next, Amy moves in and posts on tumblr, texts everyone and learns to never trust Sherlock with anything.


	11. Interlude:Amy Amy Amy

**A/N: Patchwork of texts.**

* * *

**Amy, we're out of tea. Get some on the way home -SH-**

**What do u mean we're out of tea? There's some in the second shelf of the cupboard next 2 fridge -AP-**

**A whole tin -AP-**

**Those are disgusting -SH-**

**Picky. Only if I have any change left after buying custard creams. -AP-**

**Don't buy them. Mrs Hudson has plenty -SH-**

**You can't keep nicking Mrs Hudson's food! –AP**

**Why not? -SH-**

**Cuz it's not yours? Or in her words, she's your landlady, NOT HOUSEKEEPER -AP-**

**Our -SH-**

**Oh so it's OUR landlady now? -AP-**

**Get some sugar as well -SH-**

**Sugar? I only bought sugar yesterday -AP-**

**In the middle of the night fyi because you sent me out! -AP-**

**Not anymore. Brown sugar this time -SH-**

**Oh god. Experiment? –AP-**

**Yes -SH-**

**fyi? -SH-**

**Txt spk. Look it up. -AP-**

**I hate u -AP-**

**Don't be childish Amelia. -SH-**

**BLEH -AP-**

**Amy, NOT Amelia -AP-**

**Also out of milk -SH-**

**Rory. I'm gonna kill you -AP-**

**Amy, laptop? -SH-**

**What? I don't have a laptop -AP-**

**Don't be ridiculous -SH-**

**I'm not. I've never had one. Get your own. -AP-**

**It's in my room. -SH-**

**So? Ur on the sofa again, aren't u? Ur the 1 that's ridiculous -AP-**

**Why? What did I do this time? -RW-**

* * *

When she first met him, he said that flatmates should know the worst about each other. Then he told her very truthfully that sometimes he didn't talk on for days end and that he played the violin.

She screams into her pillow in frustration.

Fifth night in a row he won't shut the hell up. Well he was right about the violin.

It almost makes her miss the cat that was always lurking in front of her window back in Leadworth. The one that settled in the neighbourhood on the summer of her nineteenth birthday and would just not shut up. Really. It kept on screeching and yowling so much that she and Mels later nicknamed it 'Yow'. She never knew how much murderous impulse she possessed until she almost ran out of the house to wring its neck. Needless to say Yow came back with two friends the following year and formed an ejaculating trio that performed in canon style.

And now, in this hour of dawn, 3:21 am to be exact, according to her new customised smart phone (No more cooking, science apps or fashion magazines. All deleted.) she actually is starting to miss Yow. Sherlock bloody Holmes can play the violin very well. She knows he can. But why, is the question, does he have to make scratchy half-coherent sounds, when the rest of the house is sleeping?

* * *

Sherlock has many talents.

Superhuman intellect (she's taken his pulse once to make sure he's human), superhuman tidiness (he's always so impeccably dressed, brushed and clean when she's galloping around with unwashed hair torn into a rough ponytail, creased blouse and skirt with tea spilt on it), superhuman talking speed (she can't bloody hear him at times; she has to feel, not hear his voice), superhuman health and some sort of blessing from whatever deity that granted him sheer luck and some secret, magic pot that spewed out money.

Oh, and she guesses that she isn't the only one that finds him a teensy bit attractive. Not that she's interested in the _OMG-I've-got-a-crush-on-you way_, but in an_ Oh-look-its-shiny-and-new sort of way. _He is thin, pale and looks almost haunted at times but that in its own way is eerily compelling. He's a very good sketch subject, with all the angles and curves in his face.

In conclusion, he was like god's great big joke to the rest of mankind. Sherlock Holmes' whole presence seemed to say 'Ha ha look at what I've made; he's definitely human in terms of biology but look at how unbelievably un-human he is. I give him looks, money (she once picked up the jacket of his suit he carelessly threw on the floor of the flat and had her eyes nearly popping out) intellect, charisma and charm.'

However, said deity was either too excited about this latest creation of his or suffering from lack of sleep or stoned. Because said deity forgot to sprinkle some important last minute touches such as common sense, common knowledge and will to execute basic social etiquette, not saying everything that pops into his head, the teeniest bit of regard for others and… oh she doesn't know… how about not playing the violin at three in the morning?

She squirms again as Sherlock plucks a series of particularly grating notes that seem to be determined to tear apart her sanity. Or represent his crazy mind state and stream of consciousness. She sighs in frustration and presses the home button on her phone.

She blinks at her wallpaper, visible amongst the few apps littered on the screen. It's one of Van Gogh's sunflowers. She took to Sherlock's unintentional hint about her phone being a glaring example of her strained relationship with Aunt Sharon. Of course only Sherlock will ever know but still, she feels a strange sense of defensiveness, knowing that every time she slipped out her phone a part of herself she never really liked thinking about was visible. She deleted all traces of the former user, downloaded new apps, added new pictures and even slapped a sticker on at the back where the blaring engraving was. She knows that it doesn't mean it's gone; she can still feel the grooves a little. And to be honest the whole DIY decorating might be a little childish but not seeing the names and three kisses makes such a big difference. She isn't really keen on buying a new phone just because of the engraving. Stupid waste of money.

She tosses over to the other side of the bed and in the process, wraps the sheets more tightly around her body. She's so going to be dozing off like crazy today at Angelo's. She buries her head in her pillow and huffs. It's at times like now, she almost regrets taking up the flatmate offer. She had thought about what it would mean to make a choice, take a different course of direction in life and carefully made her plans. So when she choose to take up Sherlock's offer she kept well in mind that Sherlock wasn't completely… like everyone else. But even with her plans and bracing, as always, life laughed at her expectations and gave her the most bizarre human being she has and probably ever will meet in her life.

She would say he wasn't normal, but it's always been a question to her; What is 'normal'?

Everyone is different, a special snowflake, we should respect each other's differences and be more understanding of one , yes, yes -

It's something she's been taught from a young age and a fact she actually keeps in mind and tries her best to respect. She wasn't always the conventional Leadworth girl either, quite the opposite. Always running around like a giant ball of energy, overactive imagination, strong as an ox and too many questions. Not scared of anything, always looking for something, waiting to grow up and fly away to new places.

She isn't quite a stranger to being... not like other people.

But Sherlock tops her list of characteristic people. She can't pin him down to say he is something. He's erratic, unpredictable and really… impossible. Despite already a good month into being flatmates and having done a few cases, Sherlock still forgets about her presence at times and though he asks for help, in the middle of things he goes off because he likes doing things alone. At times she still feels like Yorik (as she's nicknamed it) the skull except that she can move around, get Sherlock stuff, make calls for him etc. Go around making apologies for him as well.

She does a lot of that actually.

Only in the strictest sense were they flatmates, and considering that, maybe she shouldn't have expected to suddenly become best mates with him. But the current state they were in was just confusing and really, odd.

Not quite friends, not quite flatmates.

Some sort of odd point between the two plus colleague. Crime solving was his work and she did go give him a hand. So collegue seemed more appropriate.

So why, is she still here? In an almost foreign city sharing a flat with a man that drives her up the wall?

Mels asked this in her last phone call and she's been thinking about it ever since. The honest answer is that well, she has no idea why-soever. The instinctive part of her her tells her that it's either this or back to Leadworth. Having the same job, the same all too familiar neighbourhood with the same old boring aunt who makes her toes curl in discomfort if they stay too long in the same room. Same old movie nights with Mels and nowhere to go except for the tiny playground with the faded paint she outgrew like Alice outgrew the white rabbit's house when she ate those cakes.

The thought makes her cringe – the banality of the situation.

She doesn't want to go back, not if she can avoid it.

The other reason is that despite Sherlock being the definition of difficult, the rest of him makes up for it. Which is another way of saying she can't resist him. It's cliche and sounds really stupid but it's the truth. Even with all his faults, he has a magnetic pull over her. She's all ready to hate him when he keeps sending her to buy teabags (the expensive ones!), ruin the kitchen to the point it's safer to prepare food in the toilet, but it all gets forgotten when they go off on a new case.

And the next thing you know?

- She going along with him, into his crazy world.

London is a jungle, a patchwork of demographics, collage of shapes and a scribble of noise. It'd be like any city anywhere in the world but he makes it different. He makes it have meaning, make sense as he deciphers away the layers of irrationality and mystery. She joins in and watches him peel off the layers, string them together and present a nice clean solution with no loose ends or leaks. The whole thing makes the insults and sudden outburst bearable as she gets swept up by the energy of the moment. To have someone who understands the crazy world and tell you what it's like and show you that it's not just a great big blob of complexities but an intricate web of logic is a once in a life time chance and she isn't just going to let it pass her by.

She's met someone that shouldn't exist in this world, and in fact seems to function in a different plane sometimes. But he is there, the impossible man, the one who's always so confident it's infectious. His confidence is mesmerizing as it seems unstoppable and he never wavers against all the odds; she never sees a second of doubt in his calculating gaze. He is always, like magic, right in the end. Against the scepticism and disbelief, he's always right.

_'When you walk with Sherlock Holmes, you see the battlefield'_

She does. He makes everything so fun and interesting from the tiniest scrap of paper to today's weather. With him, in his world it's different, compelling and adventurous. For a moment she can pretend that she belongs there too, in the edges of his mind leaping and diving straight into the extraordinary.

The self-confidence, or complete lack of self-doubt (she wonders what the difference is) is what is so intriguing about him and repulsive at the same time. She knows his overflowing confidence usually comes off as plain, unabashed arrogance that annoys her too, but ultimately he gets away with it by solving cases, saving lives and being correct. It's a strange sort of compensation that comes along with being right. She knows being right doesn't grant him an excuse to be obnoxious because people can be modest about it. But in an almost perverse way, it's thrilling to see him be the one with answers again and again and even though she shouldn't feel like that, it's satisfying as he gets away with it and walks away, smug and proud.

In the same way, even if she knows its wrong, it's hilarious to see him and his _I-don't-give-a-damn-about-rules_ and get away with that too. Guilty pleasure like poison spreads through her as she sees Sherlock Holmes breaking and entering with blatant but very good lies, break so many rules and possibly even laws, stitch up Scotland Yard at a press conference and do so many other things. He never does anything directly malicious; he doesn't kill, and despite Donovan's firm belief she doesn't think Sherlock will.

Seeing him balance and skip on and off the very thin line between social norms and eccentricity, laws and in between them, right and wrong, life and death is too much to resist and she watches him play with that fire, so pretty and in so many colours. Hopping on and off that imaginary line, doing little things like giggling at the crime scene and teasing each other at the back of an ambulance even when they've both survived near death,

He's the man who can do things that only people in stories do, and things that happen in tales are now flowering before her eyes and she lets it consume her. Horror and slight guilt, shock and thrill then mad excitement pumps through every vein in her body, gushing out of her as she catches up with him. It's always much more exhilarating when you do things people tell you not to, and before she knows it, she's dancing on that line too, a little more cautious than he is. The creative unthinkables that happen are far better than stories because it's real. Really real and she thinks if anyone had a chance like hers, if anyone could see what she's seeing with him that they'd leap into his world and join the bandwagon.

Her phone buzzes a little she sees it's four in the morning.

He isn't a bad person as far as she knows. Eccentric yes, difficult oh god yes, but with all his intellect at least he didn't become a criminal mastermind.

Now that's a thought.

* * *

**5:40**

Amy realises that she actually fell asleep even with the scratchy sounds. Well done to her. Not surprisingly Sherlock is still on the violin-

No, he's actually playing it.

She blinks painfully and sees the dawn light ghosting at the edge of the curtains. Her body is spread diagonally across the bed and she wonders if she should wake up or go back to bed. Going back to bed seem like the better option but she stumbles out anyway because she feels like it. She doesn't even bother with her shoes and grabs her pillow and the cardigan hanging on the doorknob. She scuffles out of her room, marches like a grumpy toddler down the stairs and into the living room. There's two lamps lighting the room and they give off a nice warm glow. Sherlock looks up at her in surprise from the window where he stands with his violin. She ignores him and collapses onto the sofa. It's cold and the material sticks to her bare legs but she doesn't care. Sherlock doesn't comment and goes back to playing.

"Sherlock."

He doesn't turn around to look at her, "You should go back to bed."

"Don't want to."

"You look as if you haven't slept at all."

"You haven't even looked at me -"

"You've been tossing and turning in your bed for the last six minutes. Not to mention the pacing about and screaming into your pillow," Sherlock cuts her off and plays a very high and very long note. She winces at the piercing pitch -

"God how do you hear all that. Oh never mind," she swings one of her legs, "I have slept a bit. Though I did wake up at three, thanks to you."

She says it in a mock-grumpy way. She isn't angry at him now. Or maybe she just can't bother to be.

"Why do you always play in the middle of the night? When this half of the planet is sleeping?"

"The other half isn't. It helps me think. And I think better at night."

"Still."

Sherlock resumes playing (properly) and she looks around the living room. It's sprawled with papers but relatively cleaner than most days. A great big mess of books on the desk and ah... the kitchen is as clean as it can be. Sherlock would probably be able to tell what happened in this very spot if he were to observe it. Too bad she can't. The way he deduces makes it seem like the easiest thing in the world, and for all its superhuman qualities, it seems like something that can be learned. It's not a genetic mutation or accidental science experiment but threads of logic and observations. Too bad saying and rationalising are easier than doing. She's tried her own hand at deducing on the way home on the bus with absolutely no success. She couldn't do it like Sherlock could and the anonymous people on the bus remained as mysteries forever.

She listens to the notes gliding on the bow. It's actually quite nice. A bit sad though. She doesn't mind the sound as much as she did in her room, even though it's louder here.

Funny, for someone who has such little reactions in daily life Sherlock plays with so much_ feeling._

Or maybe that's just her.

He doesn't seem to notice her looking at him from the sofa. That or he's too absorbed in playing.

Out of all the mysteries in the world, Sherlock's the biggest one.

It's kind of unfair, she thinks how Sherlock could tell everything about her with just a look but she hardly knew a thing about him. Inequality in any relationship never any good; she knows this from past experience. She knows absolutely nothing about him except for the fact that basic details like names, address, him being her flatmate, the fact that he lives on tea during cases and that he has a brother. She knows he clasps his hand in a prayer like manner and props them under his chin when he's thinking, really thinking and that he's her strongest suspect for the Jammy Dodgers that keep disappearing.

There's a question on the tip of her tongue she wants to ask, but not until the playing's over. It's pretty intense now, and she has a hunch the piece is coming to an end. It seems almost a sacrilege to interrupt when he's so focused. She finds a ball of very blue wool on the table next to her and she fiddles around with it, like a cat.

* * *

Her hunch is right, and the music comes to a stop. She throws the blue wool at Sherlock and it hits and bounces off the side of his shoulder carelessly.

"Sherlock."

"Oh what now -" he answers irritably in a tone that reminds her of Jeff when to barged into his room and pushed him over to have a go at his computer game.

"Question."

"What."

Better make it quick. She sits up and hugs her pillow. "Why do you fight for the law? I mean why do you fight crime?"

"As opposed to?"

"I mean you could've been… something else. You could've fought against the law and you probably won't even get caught. No offence, but you've certainly got the brains for it. So...why?"

Sherlock puts his bow down and snaps open his violin case, lying on the desk.

"Why do you want to know?" he asks, not looking at her yet.

"Just curious." she shrugs.

"Why did you become a nurse?"

"I'm not. Anymore."

"You were though," he corrects and turns to face her. "And out of the many jobs you could have chosen, you chose a job that essentially requires being locked in a building all day long and giving your full attention to the whims of others. That's not you."

"What is me then?"

"You enjoy adventure and the excitement, obvious and understandable. You're used to handling things your way. Three characteristics that have very little to do with the nursing profession. So why is it you chose to do something against your character?"

She sees the logic in the question he's asking. But the question is, is he asking the question to her, or himself?

"Because I needed a job."

Sherlock raises an eyebrow.

"Oh I.. I've never really thought about it. I think…"

She trails off and looks at Sherlock thoughtfully.

"You tell me yours if I tell you mine. Deal?"

Sherlock smirks slightly, but not in a condescending manner. Oh well. Eye for an eye.

"I don't know… I was seventeen and I didn't really… Well I had a job if you could call it that, but it was a laugh. And I did it to annoy Aunt Sharon mostly. Um, anyway," she changes the subject before Sherlock asks what she did before she became a nurse. Not too keen to tell him just yet.

"I didn't really know what to do," she sits cross legged on the sofa and Sherlock takes up the chair from the desk, "I don't think anyone knows what to do when they grow up. I mean all the teachers and parents tell you that you should have dreams, you should think big and have ambitions but face it, even people in their forties and fifties don't have a clue of what they want to do and to ask a teenager to decide on what they want to do is kind of you know... too much."

She shrugs a little and hugs the pillow a little harder. Conversations about normal stuff, about personal things are so rare between them and for the first time, Sherlock's actually listening, which is odd. Not just that but she's rarely talked about herself with anyone, one of the reasons she could never get used to the therapy sessions when she first started them. But here she is, talking to Sherlock Holmes of all people about her career choice she never thought about. She's saying things other than snarky comments, exclamations of amazement or questions about a case. He's actually listening and it's almost too good to be true. She might as well make the best of this sudden spotlight.

"So yeah I needed to think about my career, Aunt Sharon was bugging me and I really wanted to get away from her and Leadworth as well. Oh and to top it all, Rory already started to prepare for his training. So I guess, one day when I was eighteen or nineteen, whatever I decided to be a nurse. Rory's influence was big and… I liked helping people. And ever since… my parents died and nursing seemed like a good option. Boring I know but I did learn some handy stuff. And I was quite good."

She trails off awkwardly and incoherently trying not to sound like she's boasting. She was quite good at her job though.

"You never considered anything else?"

Surprisingly Sherlock doesn't scoff at her very boring life and actually asks her another question.

"No… I wasn't really sure… Not everyone has the creativity or guts to start an inventive a job like you. I didn't mind too much when I became a nurse; it was okay in its own way. Other than that I liked drawing. And running about. Maybe I should've been a street artist."

"You said you wanted to leave Leadworth. Why didn't you?"

She sighs and fishes out memories of her dull childhood, laying them out before Sherlock. Things he couldn't know unless he asked her. What was going to be a simple question now turned into one giant reminiscing session.

"Leadworth was and always will be boring. Look, you say the middle of London is boring but frankly, it's the most exciting thing in my life. You, even with your violin scraping is the singular most fun thing that's ever happened to me. If you think London's boring, you'd have probably died at the age of seven in Leadworth. There is absolutely nothing to do there except… go to school. And I had absolutely nothing to do at home with Aunt Sharon always out. So from the age of seven I wanted to leave, I really wanted to. I kept telling myself that I was going to leave and do something fun, something exciting but then… I grew up. You know when you have all these great plans and you think that you're going to do all of them but then, you get used to things, the everyday life, even the things you hate. It's like that one dish in the school menu you can't stand but towards the end when you're about to leave school you kind of tolerate it. Leadworth.. It was like that. I hated being with Aunt Sharon, living the same routine over and over again but I couldn't walk right out because -"

"To be free from her you needed economical independence. Reason you got a job."

"Exactly. So I waited, waited my whole life to fly away. And when I saved up enough to move out… I got used to it. Living the boring. I got accustomed, I grew up. The boring, unchanging grown ups I couldn't understand; I became them. That's when I realised that I was growing up. I learned to put up with things I couldn't stand or didn't like because… that's life."

She slumps back on the sofa in and odd mix of frustration and relief. She's become slightly emotional at the thought of her almost isolated childhood and the old realisation of how much she'd changed.

"It's funny. I was so envious when Rory left. But I still didn't make a move. Then about five years and a gas leak later, here I am, six in the morning, talking with you. I guess I got what I wanted in a weird way."

She cracks a smile and brightens up a little, "So, what about you then, Sherlock? Why d'you solve crimes?"

Sherlock stands up and for a moment she thinks he's going to go off. He gets his jacket from the armchair then comes back and answers, "Because keeping to the law is much more of a challenge then going against it."

"That's it? Because you like challenges?"

"And…"

"And?"

"If I commit crimes, I can't go around talking about it out loud can I?"

Oh honestly. She laughs but it comes out like an exasperated cough. Show off.

With that answer he walks to the door.

"Where you going?" she asks.

"I need some air."

"_You're_ going out for air?"

* * *

**url:ameliapond221B**

**10 Things I Didn't Know and Now Hate About My Flatmate**

When I first met my flatmate, he very kindly told me that 'potential flatmates should know the worst about each other' and told me that he didn't talk for days on at times and that he played the violin. What he forgot to mention was that:

-The fact that the kitchen has no meaning since nowhere in there is safe from his experiments. How many of you have woken up with fingers in the fridge? And I mean fingers, real fingers not fish fingers.

-He has difficulty understanding why stealing Mrs Hudson's sugar is not the best thing to do. Among other things.

-Barging in at all sorts of times to St Barts morgue is perhaps not the best thing to do also, especially at four in the morning.

-That one person that isn't him will have to do the groceries because someone has to remember to feed him.

-That despite special deals, the rent will depend considerably on how many bullet holes, chemical spills and pray paint are on the wall.

-My things are not mine. Nowhere is safe. Luckily enough I do not possess a laptop.

-Earplugs are compulsory at night. Expect Bach at four in morning every other day. Air freshener, ditto. We will need new curtains more often than you think.

-Other then flat mate my titles will also include; substitute apologiser, milk maid, texter and many others.

-Fungi in the bathtub? No prob.

-In no circumstances should we run out of milk.

* * *

**U ok? -Mels-**

**Sure, why? -AP-**

**Your tumblr says otherwise -Mels-**

She jolts up at the funny smell, "Sherlock!"

"What?" he calls.

"What's that smell - Oh shoot!"

Amy leaps out of the bed and rushes to the kitchen where the pasta is over flowing, bubbling like a hazardous experiment. She quickly turns the heat off and turns to Sherlock who's lying on the sofa -

"I told you to turn it off!"

"Turn what off?"

"The pasta?"

"Really?" he looks up, "When?"

**No, not ok. -AP-**

* * *

She goes up the stairs, two at a time and tosses her bag over the arm chair.

Finished clearing up early today at the restaurant and now she has more time to relax. Hurrah. Sherlock is nowhere in sight. Out again, she supposes. She grabs a sandwich and orange juice from the fridge, clean and edible. Thank god. She's halfway through the second sandwich when she spots something on the desk.

She walks over to it and sees it's a parcel addressed to… her?

She checks it three times and it is for her, Amy Pond, 221B Baker Street.

Who? -

She puts down the sandwich and starts opening the lumpy, heavily wrapped parcel. She employs the help of a pair of left handed scissors and manages to cut through.

"What?"

Inside there's a slip of paper, announcing her as the winner of some competition she never remembered entering and congratulating her for winning a -?

* * *

**Amy, laptop. -SH-**

**Use urs –AP-**

**On the kitchen table -SH-**

**Hate u. Desk. U already know the password -AP-**

* * *

**E/N:** Okay, this is going to be very long. Story notes and personal opinions. Aka ramblings. You don't have to read.

This s originally just a glimpse into Amy settling into Baker, but the middle part got away from me and formed itself.

One of the biggest questions I had while watching BBC Sherlock was why is John was so drawn to Sherlock? I mean face it, Sherlock is incredibly rude to him even when they are best friends and impossible to put up with. I once said to my friend that Sherlock only looks cool because we watch him; if we were to meet him in real life everyone would act more like Donovan or Anderson, take your pick. Ruining dates is funny on screen; real life: nightmare. Canon Watson even got married in The Sign of Four! John Watson is not just John Watson; he's St. John and deserves the Nobel Peace Prize. So why? Sherlock's attraction is more easier to get, but John?

If you look at CBS Elementary, Joan Watson's reason for staying is more plausible. a) It's her JOB, as a sober companion, she's paid and has to put up with him for a certain period of time. Still she could've quit with JLM Sherlock's douchebag-ness rising to its peak in ep 1, were if it were not for b) JLM's Sherlock not being as much of a dickwaffle as BBC's Sherlock is. He's aware of his flaws and apologises to Joan when he's gone too far, and when he does it, he does it well, even for the tiniest things. Saying sorry took Sherlock ages to do it properly in BBC's. JLM Sherlock is quite happy to let Joan point out his flaws and learn from them.

So why would Amy put up with him, instead of just pack her bags and go? This is an important issue for me to address, even if it might not be for everyone. It has to be a stronger pull than the one night thrills and adventures, because really, one can only take too much obnoxiousness. Something that can root into her heart and hook her in as she gets to know him better. So I thought why am I, why are the readers and fans of countless years attracted to Sherlock Holmes of the books and more recently BBC's version? This is a more difficult task since, BBC Sherlock is more sociopathic and mean than the canon Holmes. JLM's is more canon in terms of Holmes being ultimately more showing his caring and empathic side.

So those reasons became the pull that claws Amy in, along with the other option she had; going back to Leadworth being repulsive enough for her to stay in London with eccentric strange man. She hates the banality of her Leadworth life (as the Doctor Who Amy was or rather Rose Tyler was in S1) and the strained relationship with her aunt. Amy and Sherlock's shared desire to escape boredom in different degrees draws similarity between them. For Amy it's her ordinary life, and for Sherlock, it's everything outside his categorised area of interest. It's also in here that they differ since Amy's learnt to tolerate and accept the boring life and get used to it whereas Sherlock can't (note can't, not won't). Thinks of it as Amy being the DW companion who can't stand life back on earth because it's nothing to the TARDIS, but in the end they accept it and end up mingling and enjoying life back on earth. Sherlock is the Doctor; imagine him trying to settle on earth! He can't! Sherlock is constantly running away from boredom because he falls into it so easily, look how depressed between cases he gets. When he's moping Amy would probably go look for something to entertain herself with, because that's what the rest of the world does. Watch telly, text friends, read a book, write a novel, etc. Something Sherlock will never quite have, due to his brilliance.

Sherlock is something that should only exist in fiction – oh this is one massive joke/irony (Oh Amy! How I wish I lived in your universe!) but he's come tumbling in front of her feet. He's the door, or hole if you like to the fantastic adventures and stories. Similarly, Amy is Sherlock's closest contact with normal, ordinary life and acceptance/understanding. I think Sherlock is very human deep down, and as sociology goes, humans are social beings that need to interact with each other. In a nutshell they become a mutualistic symbiosis, just as the companion enhances the Doctor's appreciation of the universe and himself, and the Doctor gives the companion a chance to travel among the stars.

Currently, they're in a state of strong attraction, neither quite getting why they're staying with each other or why the other is putting up with them. Amy's scales balance carefully between fascination and repellence. Leaning towards the former more heavily than the latter. She's drawn to his genius, we all are aren't we? Something we'll never be. The thrill I get from watching the superhuman thinking machine is how I get pulled into the stories. The nature of the cases themselves and the ways Sherlock uses to solve them, and as Amy says, the perverse excitement of dodging between the lines, doing something you wouldn't be able to do and shouldn't really.  
However, attraction is strong but short and something deeper has to grow and forge between them for them to stay, past the point of mutual benefit to become friends.

Which is what'll happen in the chapters to come, ta.

Urgh, I'm wondering about the order of the eps because suddenly I want to scramble them up... Any ideas? Thanks for the reivew, lovely people(s) and leave some more! And any qs, ideas as well ;)


	12. Interlude:Little Things (That Matter)

**Interlude: Little Things (That Matter)**

Two months in and Amy finally gets the hang of adjusting to her new life in 221B.

Or as they say, _if you can't beat them, join them._ Not that she'd started plucking scratchy notes on the violin at four in the morning or filling the fridge with fungi. There were times Amy wished she'd thought twice before saying no to Mycroft's offer of payment.

Oh yes Mycroft, the other thing Sherlock forgot to mention. Despite the lack of physical similarity between the two brothers, genes couldn't be deceived. Amy wondered if Sherlock's uncaring tendency regarding personal space and other peoples' time came from Mycroft. Just like his baby brother, Mycroft didn't seem to get that she had a job and lots of stuff to do instead of being kidnapped at random times and random intervals to various places she never knew even existed in London. Then she'd have to basically give a report of how Sherlock was doing. Or not doing. And of course, Sherlock being Sherlock always happened to know when she'd been kidnapped off the streets and would make some malicious comment about Mycroft when she came back.

So far it was only about three times, but she had a feeling that she'd be seeing Mycroft for the rest of her flatmate-ship. The really interesting incident was ten days ago when during a case that tested Sherlock's complete ignorance on pop culture, Mycroft picked her up right in the middle of it. Sherlock, who was in plain English, pissed off, somehow managed to find them and barged in, demanding her back.

...Which on paper sounded perfectly romantic and heart stopping but when it fell into the dynamic of the Holmes brothers, was as funny as hell. The feminist in her was telling her to argue that she wasn't a 'thing' that was going to be tossed around the pair of them but watching how Sherlock, Mr Theatrics and Perfection turned into your typical younger brother but kept the eloquence was worth throwing women's lib out the window for a moment. The even more amusing thing for her was that Sherlock actually needed her, literally because it was her help that got him through almost all of the references as she very nicely explained to him about all the allusions that everyone else knew. Except him of course.

Amy thinks herself quite a nice flatmate even with the (reasonable) protests she throws at him. Very reasonable to everyone except Sherlock. She's given up trying to tell him why growing cultures on her marmalade or stealing her cleansing cream is unacceptable. The one time she did, Sherlock frowned and asked in a genuinely confused voice that he understood that flatmates shared items, especially food.

Still he did try, in his own way to keep within the normal boundaries between people who shared flats. Once he got what she was trying to tell him what NOT TO DO. For instance, last night after waking her up around two am Sherlock explained to her his latest analysis on types of dog hairs he'd been working on. After finishing his grand speech, he remembered to shut the door on his way out and even remembered a quick goodnight.

* * *

Sherlock has a very strange concept of personal space.

One thing is that he has no problem in forgetting other peoples' personal space and sometimes leans too close.

Which brings up… tension.

It's not the kind of tension that brings a blush; she's used to hanging around boys and men. But Sherlock's the first relationship she's had with the opposite sex that wasn't a childhood friend. Most of the boys in her life and were ones she grew up with and even after they became men she still saw glimpses of their primary and secondary school years. Even with the deeper voices, stubbles, taller height and Adam's apple, she could see the remnants of their awkward teenage years. Familiarity gave her ease whenever she met them at the pub or on the street. They were all her friends after all.

She doesn't have that shared familiarity or shared memory with Sherlock. They know very little about each other (Not that it matters. She and Mels are a fine example how best friends don't need to know every single detail about each other. Sherlock is the great example how knowing very private details about someone doesn't guarantee a close relationship) and that ambiguity makes her conscious of the proximity between them at times.

Maybe it's an instinctive thing- she has no problem hugging Rory or wrestling things from him and doesn't mind if Rory leans in. She's known Rory for ages and they're like siblings. Fine.

Sherlock, she's only known for a few months and it's only natural she keeps her guard, no matter how easy going she is around guys or how uninterested Sherlock seems to be in her. The glaring example was last week, when she came out of the shower with only a slightly short towel on. She thought he'd gone out, only to come face to face with him. Rory would've coughed awkwardly and made up some excuse then scuttled away. Sherlock wasn't at all flustered but just said a simple "Good morning Amy" and slipped into the bathroom. That got her thinking of the possibility that Sherlock was gay. But he didn't seem interested in guys either, completely unresponsive at the gratuitous amounts of hot men he was exposed to as she flicked through tv chanels and watched movies. She vaguely remembered that Sherlock quite clearly stated he had neither girlfriend nor boyfriend the first time they met, but that didn't confirm which sex he was into. Or both. Maybe neither.

She's discussed this with Lestrade once when she met him at Sainsbury's down the cereal corner. He actually told her he was gobsmacked when he heard that she was Sherlock's flatmate. He said he'd never see the day Sherlock strike up a relationship with anyone, let alone a woman. She shrugged coyly, not letting too much slip. She had a hunch that Scotland Yard had their own speculations on the nature of her and Sherlock's relationship. Let them guess. It was more fun that way and people did little else. Gossip and speculations, wild guessing. Ha.

Anyway, putting Sherlock's sexuality aside, the other reason for her moments of discomfort was the way he moved.

Sherlock moved with calculated grace. Those two words somehow managed to work together when describing Sherlock Holmes. He rarely make a misstep and it suited his perfectionist composure. She was reminded of the first part of Around the World in 80 Days where Jules Verne took great pains to explain the precise, almost robotic and unchanging lifestyle of Phlieas Fogg, the Victorian gentleman (Sherlock would make a good Victorian gentleman). Always punctual and balanced: Sherlock was like that. Well, one side of him was. The other side of him, the one with the fluidity and grace of a trained dancer or skilled ballerina always had an air of underlying animalistic agility. It was there whenever he rushed off, dashing about and the sweep of the wind from his movements whipped up her hair in a dancing frenzy.

* * *

Sometimes she can't go to sleep. She lies in bed, listening to the sounds around her intently…

…Or she goes downstairs and sits on the bottom third step doing nothing at all. She wonders about things. Spools of thread, the ticking of the clock. Old stories and new ones. The beat of her heart and the numb cold at the tips of her fingers. It isn't a very productive thing but the quiet, almost boring blandness of sitting on the stairs with her head against the banister gives her some kind of peace. Twice she's fallen asleep and woken up stiff and numb with pins and needles in the morning. Three times has Sherlock caught he watching him doing whatever he does in the night.

She gazes across the door where she can see the messy… living room she supposes. The armchair she usually sits in is left relatively untouched but the rest of the room has an assortment of interesting things strewn over it.

Is that a bonnet?

* * *

Tonight she's on the hunt for some pills.

"Indigestion?"

Sherlock doesn't even look up from the microscope as she opens and closes the cupboards. Amy notes the need to buy pasta tomorrow and closes the last cupboard.

"And this is where I ask you how you knew?"

"The speed which you were having dinner was rather obvious."

Amy sighs and sits on one of the chairs. The kitchen, no the whole flat is quite spotless today and she decides to enjoy the rare moment. She clutches her stomach in pain and lays her head down on the cool surface of the table, hoping that her body will sooner or later sort itself out.

A few minutes later Sherlock's voice rings through her dull half asleep brain.

"Go to the fridge and open it."

"Get it yourself."

"If I heard correctly, you were and still are the one with indigestion."

Amy sighs grumpily and tiptoes to the fridge and opens it.

"Well? What am I supposed to do? Try some of your cultures?"

"Second jar on the bottom shelf of the door."

Her eyes skim down the fridge door and picks up a rather large jar, about two thirds full. She shakes it slightly. It's gloopy, a mix between runny honey and juice.

"Mix it two or three spoons of it with a glass of water." Sherlock instructs from behind.

"Is it safe?" Amy asks gingerly. Knowing Sherlock, she shudders at the suspicious gold liquid.

"Perfectly."

"What is it? And before you say it, this fridge is full of things inedible, toxic or both so yes I'm asking before taking anything from it. I still haven't forgotten the incident with the real fish fingers."

"Prunus mume."

"I'm sorry, what?"

"You asked what it was. Prunus mume." Sherlock says this as if its the most obvious thing in the world, like most of the things he says.

"Yup, really comforting." she doesn't miss a beat. Or the everso slight deadpan that was almost compulsory in conversing with Sherlock.

"Or if you like, more commonly known as the Chinese plum. That in the jar is the concentrated extract of the fruit. It's good for indigestion." Sherlock explains patiently. That lowers Amy's suspicions a little and she gets a glass of water and opens the large jar. The lid is slightly sticky. She lifts the jar and sniffs slightly. It smells sweet and fruity and seems harmless enough. She gets a spoon and adds two spoons of the honey like substance and mixes it in the water. Sherlock's watching her carefully as she takes a cautious sip. She eyes him back through the edges of the glass. The liquid tips inside her mouth and she swallows, letting it wash over her taste buds and rush down her throat. It's fruity and is slightly sour, in a nice way. She drinks it all up and carefully puts the jar, screwed tightly, back where it was and washes the glass and the spoon.

"You sure it'll work?" she asks again.

"Absolutely."

"Where did you get it?"

"Before I moved here a few months ago, a Korean student in my old neighbourhood-"

"Where the former landlord kicked you out?" Amy smiles. Sherlock frowns at her teasing smile.

"It's on your site. Montague Street or something."

"I had a disagreement with my landlord."

"Which is Sherlock for he kicked you out. Oh come on. How many holes did you burn in his carpet?"

Amy laughs at the thought- she could practically see Sherlock's old landlord's horror at what Sherlock had done to the flat. Not everyone was like Mrs Hudson.

"A student in my old neighbourhood brought an interesting case to my attention." Sherlock continues, ignoring her jibe, "It was a very clever one."

"She paid you with that jar?"

"No she didn't have to. I don't take cases out of financial need, only the ones I find interesting. That particular one was by far the most intriguing in ten weeks. And that alone was enough."

"Then how did you get that?" Amy asks.

"Present, according to her. She came running with it just before I left."

Sherlock says the word 'present' as if he isn't used to the word or idea. Giving something without wanting anything back.

"That was nice of her."

"Useful. Indigestion should be gone by now."

Amy suddenly becomes conscious of the… not pain in her stomach. It doesn't hurt anymore and she stretches around a bit.

"It is!" she cries out happily.

"See. It's the organic acids Amy."

Sherlock's seems happy for his suggestion to have worked, and Amy drops all suspicion. The nagging pain that had her rolling in her bed for the last half an hour is gone and thankfully no harm has come after consuming something from the fridge.

"So, what was the case about?"

Feeling much better, Amy Pond asks Sherlock about the case that caught his attention so much. She listens on, even if Sherlock's way of telling things is made up of facts, numbers, dates and measurements rather than adjectives and suspense, which is more her. Her itching curiosity to know about it gets the better of her but also, she has a feeling that Sherlock wants to tell her.

The pair of them spend the rest of the night in a nice clean kitchen and over a cup of tea, she listens intently as he tells her about corner stores, a code system consisting of post cards and fake stamps and a slips of receipts hidden in magazines. Sherlock likes telling and talking, and Amy lends an ear, listening intently. Her fascination isn't from just the case or his acumen to pick it out from the everyday life but watching him light up as he unravels a mystery in that ingenious and logical way of his.

For once they're almost like normal flatmates, her in her nightie and favourite emerald green cardigan, sitting cross legged and him, in that uniform dark purple shirt and immaculate charcoal trousers, chatting over a cup of tea.

* * *

_"The devil is in the detail Amy. The quarter of an hour, the crack in the mask, the slip in the lie. It's all there."_

Amy knows he's right, that it's the detail that counts.

The exact number of freckles, the different lengths of each and every eyelash, that small twitch of the corner of the lip when something clicks-

It's the tiny little quirks and intricacies that make the difference and make up a person.

She puts her pencil down and looks at her work, getting there but not quite finished.

It's the detail that separates the face from all the rest but sometimes…

_You need to look at the bigger picture._

Cliché, but true. All the deepest and most fundamental truths come in the most clichéd and harmless phrases. Harmless phrases that have the hidden bone in them.

It's when you realise how true those phrases are that the hidden bone nudges you, poking at you between the words.

She looks at the paper and then back at her subject who is writing something up on a piece of paper. For all his laziness, Sherlock prefers to write up his case notes by hand (his handwriting is peculiar like the rest of him.) and compile them. His notes, are punctual and contain the crucial facts and points of a case and many abbreviations. There are no excess explanations or elaborate paragraphs. Sherlock only needs a few keywords to remind himself and refresh his mind to string the connections together again. She's taken a look at his old ones and couldn't make a head or tail of them. It's only in the cases he's explained to her or the ones she's participated in, she can see the importance in say... realising that the material found under the dead teenager's fingernails could only be found in a certain part of East London.

Her first proper drawings (the ones she wasn't embarrassed to show people) were around the age of twelve. It was then that her drawing style defined itself: catch the big things and the prominent details then focus on the others. It was quite effective since she could express what she wanted in a very little number of strokes. Three years later, she started paying attention to detail, because those details gave a personal and more vivid touch, showing that she put effort. The little details you see as the light shifts and the irises change or the wave in a hair looks different is thrilling to draw but frustrating at the same time; the changes come to quickly and varyingly, making it impossible to capture. No matter how long she worked on, it never looked quite right.

She sympathises with the impressionists. Monet's great blobs and Van Gogh's fierce strokes.

Currently, Sherlock in HB and B looks a bit grumpy and there are too many waves in his hair. True, Sherlock in real life has an impossible amount of curls in varying sizes and directions that would give any sculptor a field day, but she isn't quite happy with today's drawing. She can never quite get him _right._ She rubs the edge of his nose again with a rubber and retraces it with the HB pencil, just blunt enough.

She wonders if it is possible to capture Sherlock at all.

She's almost gone through two quite thick sketchbooks ever since she moved to London, and of the two, Sherlock takes up a great deal of them. He's a very interesting sketch subject with all those angles and slopes in his face, not to mention the hair and the ever changing colour of his irises. His irises are her favourite; they're so capricious, like his mood swings.

All of her Sherlocks come in shapes and sizes and a lot of expressions. Subtle ones. Sherlock has some of the most hilarious expressions when he's being emotive or grumpy; they're worth a place in the Hall of Comedy. Most of the time though, his expressions are incredibly hard to read; only flickers and twitches of a random face muscle. It's a challenge to put them on paper and she likes and hates it at the same time. _Contradictions._

Sherlock himself is a bundle of contradictions.

Yes, the devil's in the detail she knows that very well, as a girl of perhaps a hundred official and unofficial sketchbooks. They make up the leaves, flowers and faces she's drawn up, and help to distinguish them. Even plain, lumpy clouds have little things that need attention and notice from the observer.

_The small glint at the corner of his eye when the cogs in his head start to roll, the pause when he's trying to sound cool as he explains the findings he wants to share, the tiny crease in his forehead when she laughs out suddenly-_

Her details lie on paper as she makes impression of them and take note in the spectrum of her perceptions. They exist to be seen and admired, to touch people and amaze them at how focused and concentrated she was when breathing the sketches to life. They don't need to be strung together or analysed; where they are suits them best, in their places, in harmony, silently enhancing, channeling the subject of her drawings and her as an artist.

His lies in the palace of his mind as he absorbs them and processes them there, picking them out from the blurry storm of everyday life. The little clues that everyone misses, everyone except him, the things that are ignored and forgotten by the rest of the world. He finds them, makes them special and takes them with him to fit together and click into place on the giant jigsaw puzzle he's putting together with no full picture. And when he finds the crucial pieces, or cuts out the missing ones if he can't find them the bigger picture shows itself in its wholesome glory. He then frames the whole thing and shows the whole picture to the rest of the world, what it looks like in his head, how it's supposed to be for the ones that can't see.

They speak different languages but somehow, it makes sense, even with tiny gaps lost in translation.

They're talking about the same thing in the end.

* * *

**E/N: **Yes, prunus mume, or chinese plum, japanese apricot or maeshil in Korean is an actual fruit. It's the fruit of the japanese blossom tree (which does not strictly grow only in japan) and has been and is widely used in East Asia for a variety of purposes. Medicinal, culinary you name it. It's used in traditional oriental medicine as well, and the concentrated extract is good for indigestion.

I'm actually quite pleased with this chapter especially the last part. Had writer's block with this interlude and I am now quite happy with how it turned out.

Anyway, thank you for the reviews and follows;) Dear LatinBookReader in particular, lots and lots of thank yous for your suggestion. I had a similar idea, and yours really helped me a lot. I'm still juggling on what is better, and argh-

How do you guys feel about the relationship? I'm leaning more on the platonic romantic friendship scale, because I'd really like a strong hetrosexual friendship which would be very nice as rare as they are. A lot of the fic on the crossover section regarding Amy and Sherlock are childhood besties then fall in love or meet as grown ups while Amy is waiting for the Doctor/left the TARDIS then eventual love.

So with that in mind I'm trying to portray a sort of relationship where Amy's attracted to him in a fascinated kind of way. As a girl who likes drawing and is attracted to the subject she can't quite _get_ on paper. Which I think adds another side of her other than just being awed at Sherlock's out of this world awesomeness.

Amy's drawing style I've made up is actually the way a friend of mine, who is an excellent artist draws. She doesn't have to do much but you can tell exactly what shes drawn-it's seriously cool.

Tell me what you think my wonderful readers! Review!


	13. Prologue:Reconstruction of the Last Week

**Prologue: Reconstruction of the Last Week**

_How much do you trust him? _

_And how much do you think he trusts you? Or, how much do you matter to him? Does he care?_

_Tell me Amelia, I promise I won't tell anyone. It'll be our little secret._

_What was it about him that had you, 'spellbound'? The looks? The cheekbones that you joke so often on that sweet little blog of yours? They are quite sharp, aren't they? The smile, the blue eyes or simply his intellect? What was it Amelia?_

_Come on, you can tell me._

_I might be the last person you'll ever tell._

* * *

She thinks back to the last couple of days. The last week. And wonders _where did it all go wrong._

Think of it, it's her fault. Really. She never listens to anybody's good opinion -

_(The majority of the occupants of this planet don't either Amy, no need to look like that)_

Despite everything, she smiles to herself. She wonders since when she'd come to accept him so easily in her life that he'd become a voice in her head.

Everyone told her to keep away. Everyone. But she didn't. Couldn't, she corrects herself.

_The last week._

She got a new job.

* * *

_Amy looks at the paper again and considers calling Molly again for specific details but decides against it. She looks around and spots a man standing by the door. She strides up to him confidently and taps him on the shoulder._

_"Excuse me?"_

_The man jumps a little at her presence and she's reminded of a frightened animal._

_"Yes?" he stutters out._

_His hair is mussed messed up as if he's just gotten out of bed and the small badge on his breast tells her he works here. Oh good. He's shorter than her (a lot of people are), about average height and a couple of years older. Ish._

_"I'm looking for Sarah?" she looks at the scrap of paper and it confirms her briefly memorised information, "Yeah, Sarah Sawyer? I came here on a recommendation from a friend. About the part time job."_

_She holds her breath a little and waits for his reply._

_"Oh, um this way-" The man says awkwardly and motions her to follow him. She jogs along behind him, dashing past the many rooms of the gallery to presumably, Sarah's office._

_Amy leaves the office with a giant smile on her face and checks her mobile phone._

_A text from Sherlock (Reminder to buy milk. What else?) which she ignores and one from Molly asking how it went. She texts back to Molly and meanders absent-mindedly across the many rooms of her new to-be workplace. She finishes texting the last few words and sits on one of the many seats in the middle of the 16th century paintings gallery to empty her pockets. She pulls everything from them, deciding on what to throw away and what to keep._

_Old receipts - goodbye_

_Number of that barista at the Starbucks on the bus station - throw away_

_Grocery list, ball of string (?) – keep_

_Monopoly thimble – keep_

_A marble - keep._

_She scrunches the potential rubbish in her left fist and stands up to adjust her scarf. She's looking for the exit when she spots the same guy from earlier on, standing in front of one of the paintings. In the spirit of her new job, she decides to introduce herself early._

_"Hello"_

_She slips in next to him, treading carefully so he doesn't jump in the air out of surprise. She has vague idea on making a good first impression._

_"Oh hello-"_

_He turns around and a flicker of recognisation lights up his face. She gives him her best smile._

_"Hi. Um, I talked to Sarah and I'm starting next week so... well we'll be seeing more of each other from now on. I came over to say hi and um..."_

_The sentence that sounded perfectly fine in her head trips over itself in a hurry to come out and she pauses for a bit, wondering why she thought introducing herself to a complete stranger was a good idea. She decides to just tell him her name and run away as fast as she can before she makes a fool of herself._

_"I'm Amy. Amy Pond."_

_She sticks her right hand out for a handshake, god knows why. She regrets it instantly, cringing inwardly at her childish cheesiness-_

_"Congratulations, well... That's… um great! I'm Marcus. Marcus Morstan. But my friends call me Marc."_

_Unbelievably, he doesn't stare at her hand, increasing her inward torment but takes it gently. His hands are smooth except for the few calluses she can feel and she guesses that he's a piano player like herself. His fingers are warm and she feels the tiny pads of them pressing down on her hand, conveying touch and human warmth. Those five points envelop her hands gently and only apply the slightest bit of pressure, as if reaching for the keys of a piano at the very beginning of the piece, just before he's about to play the first note. The likely possibility of him playing a same instrument as her offers an irrational ease and forms a spark of connection as the discomfort grappling at her heart loosens considerably._

_"Nice to meet you Marc."_

_"The pleasure's all mine, Amy."_

_He smiles back at her and shakes her hand. She shakes it as well, now really smiling with genuine pleasure, not practiced politeness. His smile is friendly and his voice has a musical note to it. He pronounces every single letter of the words that come out of his mouth with care and precision like some phonetics professor. Which is... nice. The clipped enunciation doesn't make him sound pretentious, but as if he cares about the words he says, even the small two lettered ones. She shakes his hand a little too long and lets go when she realises the fact. A little thrumming in her heart and slight warmth in her cheeks doesn't escape her notice afterwards. She thinks it's because of his nice reciprocated gesture or happiness at making another potential friend in London._

_She thinks._

* * *

She got Sherlock's usual comments, a half reluctant 'approval'

_"How was the new job Amy?"_

gave a thank you cake to Molly for her introduction to the part time at the gallery.

_ "Oh, thank you! You didn't have to, but oh, it's so nice!"_

The rest of the week, the moments flicker pass like traffic lights.

Then it stops to the two days before she quit her part time job at the coffee shop in front of St. Barts.

_The day she spoke to him. _

She'd met him before, said hello, served coffee, given a wink... She'd done it loads of times.

* * *

'_They all think the same… That it's never going to happen to them… It's only too late when they realise how idiotic they were'_

* * *

Sherlock's words ring again and again, as if to mock, to scorn with all its malice.

She should have known better to keep her guard, especially when gallivanting around with a self-employed consulting detective who only chased the goriest, weirdest, bizarrest cases in the country.

She's here. Now. The case was over - or so she thought. What's happening now, it's all very real.

But the bitter and chilling truth is this; everything - it's not about her. She's just another step towards the final goal; _Sherlock Holmes himself._

She hates being helpless, overpowered, alone, waiting. But she's no superhero and miracles only happen in the countless movies she's seen.

So here she is, on the cold, slightly damp floor of what feels like a swimming pool, breathing through the dense fog of chlorine, trying to stay calm, not to pass out –

_Breathe Amy –_

_Come on Pond. You trust him. He'll do it. For the sake of the 'game', if not for you._

She pretends it assures her, that it doesn't hurt.

But it does. It should.

She wrenches back a sob because one single cry will let the rest flow, helplessly and without mercy.

She's like any other person. She wants to be comforted, told that it'll be okay, it's going to be all right.

She wonders if this is what Molly tells herself every other night, knowing that she matters very little to Sherlock and his web of logic. Having to live upon the poorly concealed truth that she's doing her role in her tiny occupied pinprick of Sherlock's world –

But that's Molly. You're his flat mate, you've known him longer, you've lived with him –

No.

Had Sherlock shown any notion of 'caring' (she flinches at the memory of the expression on his face as he barely spat out the word) for her in any way that she did? He was never the most comforting of people, and her, what would she call it?

Disappointment? Resentment?

Whatever it was, it had reached the peak recently, propelling her to reflect on her impulsive choices.

_Cold, calculating, rude -_

In the space of a day she'd come to truly think about him, think about them. Was that right? She was doubting him, why did she do that? She never had an ounce of wavering belief, but now it was squirming as she played and reexamined all the things they'd done together, her trust in him.

Trust.

Mycroft's words on their first meeting come back to her and she wonders.

Trust.

Does she trust him? Trust Sherlock Holmes, detective, flatmate, master of the violin -

Was it trust? The thing that let him get away with it, follow him with no resistance, swallow up his deductions - was that trust?

If not, then what was it?

Doubt. The all too easy temptation of doubt, the benefit of it. People live their lives, taking things for granted, never asking the right questions; he'd said that only a few hours ago. It applied to her now. She'd just chosen to go along with him without really looking at what she was jumping into.

Without taking in what he was really was. It was all there, but she wasn't looking. She didn't want to. She didn't want to know his imperfections, she didn't want to get acquainted with Sherlock Holmes, the real one inside. She wanted to banter with the dry wit, chase the flying coattails, laugh at the eccentricities, awe at the otherworldly genius –

She didn't want to know the ugly faults, complexions that bought conflict, admit to herself of his problems. She didn't dig in deeper and see what and who he was truly –

Because she was scared. Scared to know 'him', scared to face the wrenching disappointment.

So she pretended not to look and didn't prod or push farther than it was absolutely necessary.

It was easier like that

It seemed too good to be true, and she forgot for a moment, that everything had a price. She forgot that you had to accept people's faults instead of turn a blind eye to them.

_Will he come?_

(The earlier overdose of heavy disappointment is only left in flittering remnants at the pit of her stomach. It's being diluted by the minute in something stronger, more sickening and terrifying. Primal. )

* * *

_How much do you trust him?_

_Does he care?_

* * *

_"He's coming , he's coming. He's going to come…"_

She whispers the words again and again, feeling them dying from her lips as the moments pass.

Doubt was seeping through every heartbeat (that could be her last). Doubt in what?

Herself or him?

_He'll come, he'll come, he has to come…. He has to._

She wonders again and again where it all went wrong. And the thing is, she can't pinpoint the exact moment because there never was one. The threat was always there, beneath the benign smiles and thoughtful tips –

She could wonder all she liked about where exactly this particular chapter of her story started but she knew it would be fruitless. She was right in the middle of things, caught up so tightly in the centre of the web, getting even more wound up, tangled and involved by the minute. Even before she was aware that she had come.

Just like a dream.

The weight on her chest feels heavy and she breathes, in, out, in out –

Her instinct for survival kicks in and its not a question of doubt anymore.

'_Please come Sherlock. Please. Please. Please.'_

Please.

* * *

_It's the last shift at the coffee shop and she's spending the few remaining hours chatting with Vicky about what goes best with chips. She's been told she'll be sorely missed which is nice to know. Even with the short periods she's been popping in and out of this tiny cafe, she knows she's going to miss one of the first few people she met when she first came to London. Miss the silly things she used to laugh at with Vicky and Rob – spilt milk, weird comments in the secondhand books that they sell with the coffee, customers with interesting features or habits, that kind of thing. The feeling grows with the minutes that tick but she shrugs it off; she'll be fine._

_'Sentiment' goes the voice of Sherlock in her head._

_Yeah whatever._

_This week's been hectic; getting new shifts, quitting old ones, visiting the GP's for a nursing position, helping Mrs Hudson downstairs with some remodeling. Thank god for no cases, except she secretly agrees with Sherlock that nothing in this world is more hazardous to his health than boredom. It's been a small mercy that she's rarely been in the house the past week but in the small moments that she's dropped in, Sherlock's been upsetting everything and everyone that he can to drive away his inner turmoil. The poor flat's become a designated battlefield with things flying over it, rolling across it left, right and centre. She has now really taken to cooking in Mrs Hudson's kitchen as a last resort._

_The number of times Molly smiles in a day has shot up to cosmic levels with Sherlock always requiring some body piece after the other (he should thank whatever he believes in that his flatmate is an ex-nurse of strong constitution because frankly, she shudders in sympathy for whoever else might have had to put up with him.) Milk consumption has also been colossal and Amy thinks that she could have filled a few baths with the amount. She's given up trying to clear the place after a spider bit her as she was sifting through some books._

_But mostly Sherlock takes to shouting abuse at whatever he likes and dragging whoever he wants into his tumult to depression. He's sent deliveries and postmen away twice and she's on the verge of hoping (even if it is rather selfish and horrid) that some gruesome murder turns up so that he'll stop trying to drag everyone in his slump._

_"Amy?"_

_She looks up from the counter and smiles at a friendly face. It's a - whatshisname from Barts. IT wasn't he? He's holding a book in his hands and she takes it, looking at the price._

_"Three pounds, isn't it?" he says._

_"Oh, yeah, right!"_

_All the books are half the price on the back. __He hands her the three quid and she pops it into the counter, handing him the book after a quick look at the cover._

_"101 Games for Kids? What do you need this for?" she asks._

_"Oh, you know. Reference. Just got bored and this," he waves the book about, "looked interesting."_

_"You want to take a look at kids' games? Stick in the mud, cat and mouse, murder in the dark, granny's footsteps…"_

_"Did you play a lot of them when you were young?" he asks, fiddling with something in his pocket._

_Amy laughs , "Ha! I probably played everything in the book. Always up and about. What about you?"_

_"Me? I wasn't active type. Didn't play well with other kids."_

_"Why?"_

_The question slips out before she knows, even though she didn't mean to pry. She doesn't know him that well, only a few hellos here and there when he comes to grab a book or a coffee._

_He smiles, but there's an edge that looks like he's telling himself a private something, __"They didn't interest me. I found most games boring."_

_She nods, not quite knowing what to say back to the words or the smiles._

_"So I heard you're quitting?" he asks and she looks at him in surprise._

_"I heard Vicky talking about it." He gestures towards Vicky making a latte._

_"Yeah... well I am. I got a new job and it's kind of hard to have three jobs and so… "_

_"Guess I won't be seeing more of you then?"_

_"Why would you like to?" Amy shoots him a coy smile and wipes it off like a cheap joke, "Didn't you say work in Barts? I go there quite a lot. Two of my friends work there and my flatmate practically lives there when he's not working. Or actually, when he works as well."_

_"He's the one that's the detective wasn't it?"_

_"Yeah. Consulting detective. The only one in the world according to him."_

_A phone rings and it's his. He checks it briefly and pockets it again._

_"Well, I better be off," he grins, the one with a lot of white teeth that seems like it wants to be friendly._

_"See you around," Amy waves, "It's..?"_

_"Jim. Jim from IT."_

* * *

**E/N:** I am sooooooo changeable!

Sorry I had to do that... Because well, yes I am.

First things first, it's been a year and I hope to are all well. Urgh. I had block again and after the block, a really bad flu which I still have. During the said block and flu I had a good think with what I was going to do with the whole plot and I decided on a slightly radically and completely differentish direction, hence got rid of the previously published two chapters and decided to land slap bang to the next part. Which I know you all know what I mean.

I have a better view on things now hurrah and here ends my e/n. Feedback and reviews are very very welcome!


	14. Chapter 9:The Call

**Chapter 9: The Call**

Keys, keys, keys.

Ha!

Amy jostles around her deep pockets and fishes out the keys in question. Her movements are numb and stiff as she curses herself for always, always, always forgetting gloves. In this chilly weather. She inwardly moans at her stupidity and the inevitable upcoming routine of having to warm up her hands under the warm water of the tap. It's going to itch, driving her up the wall like her flatmate on his lazy days and no amount of hand lotion will quite soothe her frozen-defrosted-cooked hands. Tonight seems even more biting than other nights and this only dampens her spirits. She's impatient to get into the flat and snuggle up on her bed as she slots the keys that feel like ice as she turns them to open lock. The door yields with a small creak and the faint smell of biscuits tickle her nose (she suspects Mrs. Hudson's baked something). She wrenches the key out of the lock and steps inside with the doormat scraping at her heels.

She's about to close the door when she hears -

BANG!

What? She jumps a foot in the air and shrieks in surprise.

BANG!

She swallows another shout and calms down to –

BANG!

No mistake, a gunshot's ringing through the flat.

BANG!

Really, she doesn't need to ask who was making it.

She runs up the stairs with her hands over her ears and there, on the sofa her suspicions confirmed, is Sherlock, with a gun in his hand, shooting at the wall. His head moves a fraction towards her as she shouts, "What the HELL are you doing? Are you completely mad – This month's rent's already horrendous with the hole you nearly burned on the sink and –"

BANG!

"Bored!" Came Sherlock's reply.

Of course.

"So you – No don't!"

"Bored!"

And before she can stop him, Sherlock leaps up from the sofa like a jack-in-the box and starts shooting at the poor wall that has a smiley face sprayed on it. His arm flies about in all manner of positions as he spins. She has just enough time to cover her ears as she watches Sherlock shoot, shoot, shoot with striking precision as he dances on the spot.

"Sherlock stop!"

Miraculously he does, and she snatches the offensive weapon from his hands to disable it quickly (She quietly thanks Mels for that snip of knowledge. Come to think of it, she's come to thank Mels even more this year, after meeting Sherlock. The outlandish things they did together were immensely helpful in cases at times and she wondered Mels had been secretly training her for something like this.) and tucks it away in the nearest drawer.

Sherlock flops down on the sofa, all that bravado blown out and she turns to him, nose cringing.

"I thought you were in Russia, shouting at the snow."

"Belarus. Domestic murder, not worth my time."

(= BORING.)

"Not gruesome enough? Pity." Amy deadpans with all the sympathy she can muster on her face and tiptoes to the fridge to grab something to eat, "Have you had dinner? I'm absolutely famished."

She ignores the catastrophe that is the kitchen table in the optimism that at least the rest of the flat is habitable. They just have to eat on the coffee table. Again.

"Have you gone outside at -"

Her heart momentarily stops in the middle of her sentence as she snaps the fridge door shut with a short and genuinely startled shout that dies in her lips, overwhelmed by sheer shock.

"Last week it was toes, now today - A severed head," she whispers to herself, holding in a tempting scream that any sane person would've let out. She takes a deep breath she learned from the yoga class when she was eighteen. Not the first time she's seen something that should have never left the morgue or six feet under the ground, but each time is as heart attacking as the rest.

"Just tea for me thanks."

She may have to beg for Mrs. Hudson's cupboard once more.

"We're out of teabags unless you like jasmine tea and no, there's a severed head in the fridge."

She strides back to the living room and prays for Lestrade to call with a case, anything, something to stop the current state of depression Sherlock was going through. She'd seen his bad days but this one was the worst and the most irritating.

"Where else was I supposed to put it? Got it from Barts morgue. I'm measuring…"

Amy buries her head in a cushion and blocks out the dragging tones of Sherlock's voice as she brainstorms for possible dinner menus that don't require using extra money. Or the cupboard. She doesn't think she has any guts left to take a leap of faith in hope that the rest of the kitchen doesn't have any body parts lying around.

Pancakes? Eggs? Toast? Cereal?

_- for dinner?_

"..See you've written up the taxi driver case…"

"You found my blog?"

The last few words catch her ears and she sits up a bit. Sherlock raises an eyebrow that she often gets, questioning about how much she is letting her brain go to waste by not using it like his.

"What d'you think then?" she asks with a smile full of expectations. It's the one she has when she knows she's going to get panned by Sherlock and is waiting for the full blow. She expects no less this time since he's always critical of a great many things, but she hopes a little; she's rather pleased of her latest post. She put a great deal of effort into it along with dose of self-consciousness and gained a nicely growing gang of followers.

"Uh.. no." Sherlock very decisively cuts off any chance of getting a "Well Done" sticker.

"What? Why not?" she flops a little in the armchair that barely supports her gangly frame and asks, quite curious about why on earth it didn't meet his tastes, "I thought you'd like it. I said quite a lot of nice things about you. I called you a genius -"

"Yes, and you obviously forgot the part where you wrote and I quote "Sherlock sees through everything and everyone in seconds, etc… but what's amazing about him is how _spectacularly ignorant _he is about some things. For example -"

"I didn't mean -" she almost falls off the side of the chair in defence of her words as she tries to rationalize the context.

"Oh you meant 'spectacularly ignorant' in a nice way –"

Sherlock slaps down the magazine he's not even reading theatrically and cuts her off, dripping with sarcasm.

"Yes, no! I mean. God! –"

"Look I don't care who's prime minister or -"

"Your own brother_, I quote 'practically is the British government'_ and you don't have a single clue as to who's what -"

"What does it matter to me? All of it! All those things ordinary people fill their heads with – all kinds of nonsense; who's sleeping with who, who's wearing what -"

"Or that the earth goes round the sun?" she suggests, a little too brightly with a toss of her head.

"That again -"

"It's the solar system! Primary school stuff!"

Amy throws her hands up, emphasizing her wonder again of how his ignorance was as remarkable as knowledge.

"What difference does it make to me? If we went round the moon or round and round the garden like a teddy bear, it wouldn't change anything -" Sherlock sits up on the sofa and waves his hands about, commencing the shouting match with her, the coffee table between them. He messes his hair up in aggravation and buries his head in his hands.

"If we went round the moon, how on earth do you expect to get daylight? You're constantly claiming your superior ''intellect' over mine but you don't even know something I did even before I started school –"

"If I ever did, I've deleted it." Sherlock mumbles through his fingers.

"Deleted? What do you think you are a -"

"Yes! Exactly. Amelia -"

"Amy!"

"_This _is my hard drive. And like any other sensible hard drive it has a limited amount of space, therefore it only makes sense if I put things in there that are useful. Really useful. Only an idiot fills his head with all sorts of rubbish and clutters his head up to make it see the really important things –" He points to his head and enunciates every word with finality, plainly stating that he isn't going to repeat this to her again.

"That's ridiculously subjective -" she huffs at the logic, biting back with her own adjectives. She feels the acuteness of hurt feelings over his description of her post; something she shrugs off any other day but today. She's bee tired of his increased aggressiveness in the past week and the fact that her own patience is frayed to the point of snapping isn't a good signal. Even with her limited personal relations, Amy knows very well that between people, especially two people, to keep a stable relationship, one person had to be more tolerant and patient than the other one. It was the reason her relationship with Aunt Sharon hit the peak in her teenage years. Neither wanted to listen to the other one and Aunt Sharon had no idea how to deal with her teenage, hormone driven niece. Rory had to come over to break them up when it got really bad and he usually played peacemaker between the two.

With all her teasing him, Amy knows inside that the only reason she and Rory kept themselves in a good friendship was that he usually was the understanding and mature one out of the two. The scrap of control she learned over her growing up was usually thanks to him; he'd shown and taught her how to tone down her recklessness and impulsiveness and think twice before she leaped. She came to have a better grasp when her emotional swings and compassion got the better of her.

Funny how that the roles had reversed when she met Sherlock; she was the patient one and he the impulsive. Rory would probably laugh at the irony, call it karma. She used to wonder in the first week whether Rory had introduced Sherlock as some sort of secret payback for all the emotional baggage she'd dumped on him in their teens.

However, currently Amelia Jessica Pond's levels of endurance, even with all their expansion through her years are a long way from the ones of Rory's, and after almost a fortnight of dealing with similar abrasiveness from her beloved flatmate is pushing her to the edge. She tries, but her voice comes out tinged with irritation and bad temper.

"I mean, what are you going to do if you come across a case that requires all the stuff you've 'deleted'? Remember the one with the Broadway tunes on my first month here? The brain doesn't work like a machine; it's bigger on the inside -"

"Where yours might work like that, mine clearly doesn't - Though I don't understand what's the point of having brains in my profession if nothing ever happens whatsoever. Don't know what's happened to the criminal classes, good thing I'm not one of them. Never mind – all that matters to me is the work and without that my brain rots. Put that in your blog .Pond, or better, stop inflicting your opinions on the web –"

And with the vicious retort Sherlock turns around to lie on the sofa, his back to her.

She stares in disbelief and just looks at the git, curled up like a giant blue cat.

Twit.

She has the momentary urge to throw something at his stupid curly hair or that broad back; he hardly eats so most likely she'll hit his spine and inflict a bruise. The thought is tempting but she doubts she'll get the reaction from him. Or perhaps too much reaction and she's had enough of his fits and arguing with him.

She's tired; tired and angry.

Upset that he's taking his utter boredom out on her and annoyed that all he ever does is mope. He's not the least productive and it's all up to her and her waning patience to clear up after him because no one else will. He doesn't seem to have any friends (who's she then?) and on her good days, she'd pity him but tonight, she's so very fed up, cold and sick of it all. She's sick of him playing diva, when she's working hard every day, quitting jobs, looking for new ones, saving, skipping buses to walk home, trying to make friends and being generally productive while he's only causing trouble and screwing everyone up. Twice she's had to apologise on his behalf, because she felt truly embarrassed at his behaviour and wanted to make up for it.

She sits still on the sofa, torn between what to do. Stay here or do something - it's the first ominous silence between them ever since she moved in and it could be like this until tomorrow when one of them gives in (most likely her).

Or, she could just get up and leave. They both need time out and she doesn't think her weariness can take any more of Sherlock. She's not a bad person; she's incredibly tolerant of his antics. But she's not a Saint, only human and she can only take so much.

She hears the front door open and close, which hurries her decision.

If the worst happens, she can camp out at Rory's.

So she gets up and takes one last look at the crouched figure with a sinking feeling. It's not a good feeling, not one she's had in a bit and the fact that his comments of her blog could have been a lot more tactful doesn't help either as the stinging settles in.

She slips on the coat next to her. Not bothering with stealth, she marches silently over to the kitchen. She drapes on her scarf and after a moment's hesitation, grabs her bag, swings it over herself and walks out.

"Where you going?"

She hears him behind her, voice full with sudden curiosity.

"Make a deduction."

She passes Mrs. Hudson on the landing and gives a little nod. She jumps down the steps, two at a time. She feels oddly free with each step, and by the time she rushes out of the door and across the street with thoughtless ferocity, determined not to seem hesitant (she thinks he might be watching; it's just a hunch) she feels like running, gliding through the night. The air is cold and it catches in her lungs but she doesn't care. On the streets, the cold pavement, she doesn't have to be patient or understanding, doesn't have to worry about someone who won't eat. She doesn't have to expect an explosion, stay calm at the sight of horridly colourful fungi on her marmalade or wait for something out of the ordinary to (quickly) land on their doorstep. She turns to the main road and sees that quite a few people are moving about, bustling.

On the road, she can for once, be like everyone else

('_Boring_' says the voice of Sherlock)

"Oh shut up you."

That gets her the glance of a mother and daughter, but she ignores them.

She's like everyone else, doing what she likes, going to wherever she chooses, unsuspecting and adrenaline free. She keeps replaying the idea, the assurance in her head and with every step, her irritation ebbs away bit by bit. She's less hostile in her strides and she enjoys the nighttime walk amid the lights and noise, letting her body heat cool off into the night.

By the time she passes Borders, Sherlock isn't so frustrating and obnoxious, and she's ready to talk to him without punching him in the face.

(She hears that suggestion every time he talks to her, save for when he's trying to get something from her. Or on one of his crazy days when he's being pleasant.)

She would've passed Borders and gone along her way, except she sees a familiar messy head. She steps into the bookstore and walks closer to the back of her head. She's wearing boots, but the figure in question is so absorbed he doesn't seem to hear her. He turns his head a fraction and her guess is confirmed.

"Hey," she taps him on the shoulder. Gently, but definitively.

He swivels around and she's reminded of their first meeting, "Amy! Wasn't it?"

"Yup! What're you doing here?" she asks quite cheerfully.

Same musical voice, same hair, same old her soon to be co-worker, Marcus from the gallery. She's very happy to see him even if they're yet to start working together and she feels all of the former irritation completely wear off, Sherlock banished from her mind as they launch into greetings and conversation.

* * *

Marc, perhaps not as eloquent as Sherlock (he stumbles through his sentences except when he's talking about something he's passionate about; then he forgets to stutter) is certainly an interesting figure. He's got a good sense of humour similar with her's and is funny in an unintentional way. They bond quickly over art and artists; she's a complete child compared to him in the knowledge compartment; but to be fair, he read art history in Uni. She lets him explain things to her as she listens to him, fascinated with the things he tells her. He uses all sorts of hand gestures to explain what he's getting at and they become responsible for using up all the napkins in a two table radius as he sometimes draws out things for her.

Used to Sherlock's smooth, grammatically correct and flowing sentences, she has a bit of a time adjusting to Marc's less organised ones. He still speaks in that peculiar way; the slightly melody in the words, even singular vowels and consonants, the clipped, well-rounded enunciation with care for each and every letter and stroke. It draws her in and makes their conversations much more dynamic; his unique voice and her proud Scottish brogue. He's an alluring speaker but an even better listener. He listens with quiet and absolutely focused sincerity which makes her wonder if the trivial comments she makes are worth such warm attention. Warmth. His gaze isn't too piercing or examining but tells her he's giving his absolute, with their engaged attentiveness. He doesn't scoff at her lack of knowledge or mispronunciation and enjoys as she tells him her own opinions. Her confidence grows with each moment and she feels relaxed enough, even when they talk of pepper and forks to laugh freely and act a little silly.

They eat and talk at the same time in the small restaurant they're in and soon over food and lemonade, the scope of the conversation turns more personal. He talks about himself, his family; it slips out by accident and he goes on. Yes, he plays the piano and a guitar and is quite good at photoshop. He's a self-proclaimed horrible singer and good at ice-skating. He does web designing as a hobby and apparently is a skilled tango dancer.

"There was this guy from Spain; is mum was a professional dancer and he was asking around if anyone wanted to learn," Marc explains through a mouthful of potatoes as Amy eyed him sceptically, "My girlfriend then wanted to and I went along. And I enjoyed it. Immensely."

They move out of the restaurant and to the streets, heading off to a nearby pub she goes to with Rory every weekend. They settle themselves down in a nice alcove and after some hustling, tic tac toe on a bunch of napkins and drinks, they resume they're conversation again, this time to families. He has an older sister who's married and has two children of her own and is expecting a third. His father was Welsh and an airline pilot; hence his dream to be a pilot for a long time –

"And then, I couldn't. My eyesight is dreadful apparently. 'Beyond salvation' was the optician's words."

His mother's Greek and she died a few years ago of liver cancer. His voice is a bit thick when he tells her that and she gives him the handkerchief she always carries (they had no napkins after all) and an understanding smile. The sudden dip into his private life is a little escalated, but she blames it on the alcohol they indulge in as she's said some pretty personal things herself. It is partly the drinks they're having that she's spilled a little more about herself than she would like to a near stranger, but also gut instinct. Perhaps it's the focused, real, normal attention he gives her; a complete contrast to Sherlock's. She's been given the honour and privacy to reveal her personal life as he chooses and in turn have the pleasure of listening to him talk of himself without knowing all the embarrassing details and tidbits first Strange how her perception of 'normal' had changed in her brief spell with Sherlock. All those things she took for granted and obvious are now put on the chopping board as she examines them from a different angle, a critical eye and a new found appreciation. It's a funny little novelty she's been given tonight and it's even more refreshing, the usual, slow way of getting to know someone after weeks of chasing Sherlock's views and perceptions. She still hasn't got a grasp of Sherlock's world (tonight's row proved so) but even with the threads of it, she marvels at how it's changed her, in such everyday things like meeting people and making friends. She'll still be fascinated by the deductions if a case were to crop up say, tomorrow, but she's not sorry to slip back in her old, pre-Sherlock, 'ordinary' lifestyle. Enjoying it with old familiarity and appealing novelty.

She's told Marc some things about herself that may be a little too open, but she has a feeling it'll be all right. She trusts him in a weird way, a sort of good faith like she trusted Sherlock the first day she met him. Though Sherlock was more of a 'close your eyes and leap' belief. It's that trust she has in Marc, the irrational '_thing _'that she can hear Sherlock scoff a mile away as she thinks of it in her head that allows her to have an arrange of conversations with Marc. She likes to believe it's mutual, as he tells her about his life and family members which he talks of with such affection. It's somewhat nice to have that and she smiles with all the kindness she now has at him. After a long walk, good conversations, food, booze and no pressure she feels a lot more gentle.

In the haze of the conversation and her pleasantly warm cheeks, Amy decides to return that leap of faith Marc's given her. She begins to tell him of a Scottish girl in an English village who wanted to be Tarzan once. She tells him of imaginary friends, tea parties, Mels and her determination, Rory and his inventive ideas in getting them out of trouble, boring old Leadworth and its people, and her eventual arrival to London. She tells him of –

"What?" she asks, at the sudden smiles sprouting from his lips.

"No, it's just… You're living with a _textbook staple_ genius…"

"Yeah.." she has no idea where this is going and lets him go on

"Who solves crimes, when he's consulted, like a financial consultant."

"He's the only one in the world. Invented the job…"

Amy doesn't know who gives in first; the two of them are hooting like lunatics in the pub, a fresh peal of laughter washed over the din. It's not even that funny, but she laughs until she's weeping, until her ribs ache and her lungs give out and she's chocking, asphyxiating -

"I know!"

"It's like you're living in... I don't know Agatha Christie or a Conan Doyle novella -"

"I sometimes don't believe it myself – All the stuff that's happening -"

"Doesn't it scare you?" Marc asks, sipping her glass of water, taking care not to upset himself into a fit of giggles.

"What?" The murders?"

"Everything. Running around London, catching criminals. Not just any old criminal. Clever, tricky ones. You don't even know who you're up against."

"Sherlock does. He has a vague idea of how things roll."

"He tells you?"

"Well he does, but half the time I don't understand what he means, because he has a habit of talking out loud and forgetting I'm there – I just happen to hear the snippet of his train of thought."

"You help?"

"I suppose. He says he likes having company around. I'm basically filling in for his skull. But yeah… I guess I do help. Not that Sherlock would ever admit it out loud. I think I saved his life the first time we met…"

* * *

He tunes up the violin again, despite it being the sixth time he's done it.

He'll do it again if it gets Mycroft to leave.

Mycroft, who liked to stop by 'for a nice little chat' whenever he was about to be temporarily forgotten from his life. Always likes to make his presence known.

Typical.

"Interesting,"

He turns around to see what it is that has caught Mycroft's undivided attention and has had him emitting various sounds of amusement in the last couple of minutes.

"Quite talented, wouldn't you say? Though she lacks the confidence that you're so obviously very full of little brother."

He snorts at the emphasis on their relationship and puts the bow down to pluck random notes, pizzicato –

"I suppose you've seen these. No doubt you have…"

One, two, three –

"… you will have missed the obvious yet again. A shame, Miss Pond has made it so clear -"

"What obvious?" he stops plucking and sees Mycroft handing him one of Amy's many sketchbooks. It's the larger one she usually keeps in her room, never leaving the flat. It's the one she hangs onto days, striving for perfection rather than the quick sketch in the ones she carries around in her pockets. She claims the smaller ones are consisted of poor scribbles done in a few strokes, but even with a blunt pencil and short amounts time, Amy Pond definitely has the eye for details, always managing to capture the basic and most necessary aspect of a subject with remarkable accuracy.

He's seen this sketchbook before, and a few times after that out of plain curiosity. She'd left it on her bed, poorly concealed under her pillows one morning she was late for the shift at the café. She had spent the whole night poring over that single page, which was still unfinished with a few blank spaces she'd rubbed out. The amount of pencil dust on the carpet, the rubber pieces on the floor told him how much she'd dabbled at the paper. She'd been recreating the living room on the beige paper, with all its shadows and lights. Every single detail down to the slight unbalance of the armchairs, the pattern on the wall paper, the items strewn all over the desk were etched out, ready to pick up from the page. In the centre of her graphite sketch stood him with some book from a case. Even with the limited space she had in between constructing the room and its furniture on the paper, she'd drawn out all the folds in his shirt and the different ways the light was reflecting onto the side of his face. He could tell immediately what time she had in mind when she was drawing it out.

That was the beginning as he began to step into her room to see how much progress she'd made in other sketches. Sometimes there would be a gradual increase, other times she'd have a sudden inspiration and fill pages within a few days. Each and every drawing was of something in 221B; the skull, armchair, lamp, curtains, kitchen sink, jars. He'd watched with uneven interest as it was the only notebook she kept hidden, under the space in the mattress. Her subjects turned to people, mostly him again; standing up, sitting down, thinking, lying down. They started with profiles, becoming more specific with every page as she started focus on a few repetitive portions: hands, fingers, hair, face.

Like this one, the current page Mycroft had handed over with a wordless smile. It's him, hands clasped together, propped under his chin; his usual posture when he's thinking. He flicks through the whole sketchbook, nearly full, mostly sketches of him, same expressions or postures drawn again and again –

"What?"

Mycroft still hasn't wiped that smile off his face which is exasperating as it never brings anything pleasant in the least.

He tosses the sketchbook back on the coffee table and takes his place in the armchair, picking up the violin again. He runs a thumb over the scroll and brushes the pegs.

Mycroft places the sketchbook under the coffee table where the rest of Amy's many drawings are piled and takes his seat opposite, with that umbrella of his leaning idly next to him.

He ignores the look Mycroft is giving him, the smile that this time reaches his eyes in an irritating way –

"Remarkable."

"What is?"

"What did you observe, Sherlock?"

The sudden leap in the order of questioning doesn't escape his notice as he answers his loathsome 'brother's' inquiry, impatient to get rid of him. Also he was rather curious as to what exactly in Amy's sketchbooks had made Mycroft looked like a cat dunked into a gallon of cream, "I appear as a frequent subject in Amy's drawings, much like most of this flat. Which is only to be expected considering the short period of her stay in London and her limited acquaintances."

"What of Mr. Williams? And Miss Hooper?"

"She knows well enough about Rory and is only briefly introduced to Molly. They have the same small talk with each other that they have with other strangers. They only talk for the sake of Rory as their mutual and sole link."

"That is a private sketchbook and I'd even go as far as to liken it to a 'secret diary' adolescent girls tend to keep. You've already been going through it as if it were your own, though I presume that there is no such thing as privacy while you are nearby. You must have upset her a great deal last night if she walked out on you without even bothering to conceal it. She needn't have bothered since you clearly have no idea as to why -"

"What are you on about? – "

"I'd take a shot in the dark that Miss Pond is yet to reach the conclusion. I would also like to comment on how you seem to expect her to come running right into this flat any moment but are somewhat doubtful. Your lack of self-doubt has always been your greatest strength and weakness, however as of lately you seem to have come across a problem that you are doing your best to avoid. It is in your good fortune that Miss Pond has not yet come to her own decisions completely so if I may offer you some advice –"

"I don't need your advice –"

"-try not to upset her when she returns."

That is a little unexpected and he asks, "Why would I upset her?"

Mycroft laughs, a short, private one. "You have a remarkable talent in that particular area, I assure you. Especially in the unintentional section."

He's getting tired of Mycroft's presence and cryptic sentences when the front door opens and brings Amy Pond. Talk of the devil.

"Besides, it cannot possibly your bone structure that's keeping her here, could it?"

* * *

"Sherlock!"

Fights and fits go to hell, she runs across the street at crashes into the flat. She'd even taken a cab to get here ASAP and see that Sherlock was all right. She'd wished for something to turn up, but she hadn't expected a literal explosion in the centre of London.

Not really.

It'd be really cruel if moment of spite had come true and that something bad had happened –

"Sherlock!"

She stumbles into the landing and is greeted by the identical looks of the –

"Mycroft? What's he doing here?"

"My point exactly," Sherlock replies with a smirk and the classic 'bored' tone. As usual, yes! At least he's changed out of his jimjams. Nevertheless, she's glad to see him in one piece, as usual, being himself down to the suit. The relief that washes through her as the anxiety drops.

"You all right? I saw it on the telly -"

"Me? Yes, fine. Gas leak apparently."

He answers her questions with a relatively mild tone and turns back to pluck some strings on the violin he's cradling, "How's Rory Amy? Oh and I see you've met someone. Was he nice?" he looks at her up and down, the usual assessment scan that disregards her open mouth, "How was the Sofa?"

"Spare bed, it was the spare bed Sherlock."

She'd almost forgotten that Mycroft was here and jumps slightly at the correction.

"Oh yes,"

Sherlock gives her a quick glance yet again and affirms Mycroft's deductions. Mycroft wasn't even looking at her.

"How?... Do I even want to know?" she gives up and blames the genes, of having not born a Holmes and takes her place where she usually sits. She looks around the flat, buzzing out of Sherlock and Mycroft's unavoidable remarks whenever the two were put together. The windows looked a lot better than she'd imagined them when she'd heard it on the news.

"Perhaps you could get through to him to Miss Pond?"

She turns around at Mycroft addressing her, "Sorry, what?"

Mycroft takes a look and her and Sherlock in a manner that tells her she's missed something entirely, "I'm afraid my brother can be very intransigent."

Amy snorts, enough to give a horse for its money, "Lazy's the word I'd use."

"If you're so keen, why don't you investigate it?" Sherlock asks.

"Where do you think the genes go? Out of the two of you, you're the one that's keener on the legwork," Amy answers for them. The two brothers turn to look at her as a full participant of their conversation and she has that feeling again; the one where she feels like a teenager next to grown ups.

Though much could be said of their behaviour.

"Sherlock's business seems to be booming since you and he became pals," Mycroft says, swiveling his umbrella around, "What's he like to live with. Hellish, I imagine."

"I don't have – Hang on, you don't know? What it's like to live with your own brother?" Amy questions, curiosity piqued at the words, "Haven't you lived with him?"

The answer she gets is Sherlock, giving off a sound of amusement.

"I'm never bored. Ever. Though he is."

"That's good isn't it?" Mycroft answers with and smooth smile. He flicks his head to the wall behind her, "Yes, I've seen the proof,"

The back of Amy's head tingles at the allusion to the smiley face. Mycroft stands up and hands her a file which she flicks through as he dictates his reason for coming.

"Andrew West, known as Westie to his friends, civil servant. Found dead on the tracks of Battersea Station this morning with his head smashed in."

"Suicide?" she asks, skipping right to the first thought in her head, "No wait – You wouldn't pay us a visit with a fancy file," she waves it in the air, "if it was just a suicide. Wait, is something missing? Stolen? Top secret? Double agent? Secret message?"

She says all the possible outcomes via her own thinking plus stuff that should usually happen, if the British government (according to Sherlock) were to appear personally in her living room.

"Living with Sherlock must have rubbed off you, Miss Pond." Mycroft states drily, somewhat seemingly irritated at her taking the initiative. Sherlock gives off an amused sound that she likes to think of as his equivalent of 'attagirl'.

"Amy," she corrects him, a little smugly.

"The MoD is working on a new missile defence system. The Bruce-Partington Program. The plans for it were on a memory stick -"

Amy interrupts Mycroft yet again with a short laugh that she turns into a coughing fit and an apology, "Sorry, but that wasn't really smart."

She laughs again, at the flitting joy in interrupting and annoying Mycroft and wonders at the turn her life had taken at the picking up of a new flatmate. She was from Leadworth, goodness' sake and now here she was, solving crimes and talking of defence plans with the government himself. The memory stick bit is also triggering; the little giggle at how the should be safest plans in the country were on well, a memory stick. She had one of those, in the shape of Lego on her key ring.

"It's not the only copy," Mycroft continues, ignoring the small giggle with a polite smile, "We think West must have taken the memory stick. We can't possible risk it falling into the wrong hands."

Amy frowns a little, at the tendency to believe in the worst of people. People in Mycroft's position, she supposes can't afford to be idealistic when state matters were concerned every minute of their days, but she still feels the corner of her eyes crinkle at the logical assumption. Even with the careful logic and probability it was an assumption at best. Sherlock had a tendency to make such logical assumptions as well, always believing the worst of people first. He'd call her naïve if she made a suggestion at cases, on an optimistic approach. She can't exactly blame him either in his circumstances and line of work but it still left her with a slight bitterness. Mycroft turns to Sherlock, unaware of Amy's thoughts, directing the last part of his inquiry to him, subtly pushing her out of the conversation, "You've got to find those plans Sherlock. Don't make me order you."

Sherlock balances the violin under his chin, "I'd like to see you try."

And resumes playing a ghoulish scrape of notes.

"Think it over. Goodbye Amy. See you very soon."

Amy waves at the retreating figure of Mycroft and waits for the door to shut, the car to drive off and Sherlock to stop. They're alone.

"Why did you lie to your brother? You've been doing nothing but shoot holes in the wall and cut off fingers for the last week. You could at least move about, no matter how 'uninteresting' this thing is. It'll do you some good."

"Why not?" Sherlock shrugs her question off. She's about to ask him why when it hits her.

"Sibling rivalry. Right. What do you two even fight about anyway? Who's better at deductions?"

"It's not something you'd know about."

The phone rings. It's Sherlock's.

And it hurts.

Just a dull pang, not really big. How can you really miss something you've never had? He sees and observes everything, yet even Sherlock misses things. Between the last sentence and the burst of the mobile phone, the call he'd been waiting for of course he missed it. The small fall in the look in her eyes, the slight sinking of her heart and her slipping expression. Not everything is deduced, like he said and he couldn't possibly know it. She hadn't told him yet. Perhaps she never will. She's told very few people and it's not something she goes around telling everyone about. She almost told Marc yesterday, but drew back, not ready to say everything in that one setting, no matter how well they… clicked.

So she tries not to hold it too much against him for being so thoughtless, tactless. He's not so good at that even when he knows what he should say or not say. She brushes off the feeling and catches his gaze, a smile on her face.

"Lestrade. I've been summoned. Coming?" He stands up, back straighter, much more alive, awake, going, back in the game and ready.

"Wait, I need to change. Two minutes," she follows suit, brushing her skirt and putting the folder on the coffee table. She dashes out before she can get an answer, up the stairs.

"Thirty seconds!" Sherlock shouts from the bottom of the stairs.

She stops before her room and shouts down, "I thought you didn't want me around!"

She slips into her room, grabs the black jeans from the wardrobe. She puts them on, over her stocking since it's nippy and she doesn't want to bother with taking off extra layers. She adjusts her t-shirt, pulls over a sweater from the desk and lets her skirt come off. She throws it on the bed grabs the gloves sitting on her bedside and stuffs them into the pockets of her coat she puts on as she races down the stairs, the teal coat flying behind her.

Sherlock waits at the bottom of the stairs, coat and gloves all buttoned up. She feels like his sitter, or rather sister, with all the checking she does.

"Whatever gave you that idea?" he says when she nearly bumps into him.

She slaps him on the arm affectionately, all the wired nerves of yesterday shriveled away on both sides. She turns him around and pushes him out the door, into daylight.

"I'd be lost without my blogger."

* * *

"Study in Pink - You read her blog?"

Sherlock's incredulous voice rings through Lestrade's office and Amy wears a delighted expression of 'Oops.' She hides it as Sherlock steals a look at her and tries not to burst with a cry of happiness. Yes, Scotland Yard was definitely on her readership.

"Of course we read her blog," Lestrade says like it's the most obvious thing in the world. Probably the only time he can do it in Sherlock's presence. Lestrade shoots her a look with the same amusement she's feeling, "We all do. Do you really not know that the Earth goes around the sun?"

There's a laugh and they all to see Sergeant Donovan at the door, not gone yet. That nearly sets Amy off again and she sneaks a wink to Sally under the death glare of Sherlock, "Not anymore. He deleted it."

"Deleted?"

Lestrade sounds as gobsmacked as she was last night.

"I'll explain, no post later," she goes on, ignoring Sherlock. This is kind of payback for last night, "Sherlock's brain functions differently with the rest of us and he wants me to put it on my blog. Stay tuned."

She does a little bit of advertising as well and fumbles inside her pockets watching Sherlock bat off Sally and an amused Lestrade. Apparently the explosion from last night wasn't a gas leak but faked. There was only a strongbox with a single letter (Bohemian, no fingerprints, written by a woman with a fountain pen. Parker Duofold, something nib, according to Sherlock.) With of course, Sherlock's name on it. It was to be expected or Lestrade wouldn't have called, but she feels a little unnerved. They (whoever they are) could've just delivered it to Sherlock or the police but they went to the lengths of blowing up a building.

For what, _attention?_

Inside was a pink phone, a la 'A Study in Pink' (she loves that title, it's a brilliant tile, the best she's ever come up with) hence the squabble now.

"It's not the same phone," Sherlock interrupts everyone else and she looks up, watching him turn it around, "Someone's gone to a lot of trouble to make it look like the same phone – Which means your blog," he turns to Amy who's heart does a jog at the sudden attention. She lets go of the keys she's fiddling with.

"…a far wider readership."

"You have one new message."

The phone suddenly comes to life with that quiet, monotone (She's never liked it. She finds it creepy, the type of voice that would be the best to tell a horror story) and everyone pays attention to what it reveals.

There's five pips, electronic, quietly definite.

"Was that it?" Lestrade asks and edges closer. She feels her phone buzz and checks it, only to see that it's the alarm.

"It's a warning."

She looks up at the word, "Sorry?"

Sherlock, not seeming to have noticed her inattention, explains, "Some secret societies used to end dried fruit seeds, melon, orange pips things like that. Five pips. They're warning us it's going to happen again. I've seen this place before… -"

Sherlock drifts off at the last sentence, focused on something else as he makes it out of the office.

"Seen what? What's going to happen?" Amy follows him and Lestrade suit, calling after Sherlock.

"Boom!" says Sherlock, emphasising with his hands in the air.

Okay, not so good.

* * *

**E/N:** This is the longest I've written in ages which is quite nice:) Possibly longest.

And the plot waddles on and Amy makes a new friend, after her first fight with Sherlock. I think they needed to fight as fights happen all the time in the world.

Marc from the previous chapter, looks in my head by the way like Ben Whishaw. I just decided that. Headcast:) He is my fav actor who is quite brilliant in what he does and also I saw an interview with Karen Gillan who said that she'd like to give a BAFTA to him and work with him one day:) I think the two would work well together as well so, I've incorporated it into this fic.

And,,, Mycroft notices something Sherlock clearly does not! I love teasing older brother Mycroft. Heehee.

Reviews!


End file.
